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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485321">This sun was ours</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant'>jouissant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rome (TV 2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Greece, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:01:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two young Romans meet in Greece.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from "Our Sun" by Giorgos Seferis.</p><p>I have been working on this fic since this past spring, and finally decided to start posting it in chapters because I want to, dammit, and because I can have a little ongoing project in 2021 as a treat. Tags will be updated as they become relevant/as I think of them.</p><p>Note: Antony is 17 here, so if sexual content involving someone under 18 bothers you please take heed and skip this story accordingly.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i> This sun was ours; you kept all of it, you wouldn’t follow me.<br/>
And it was then I found out about those things behind the gold and the silk:<br/>
we don’t have time. The messengers were right.</i>
</p><p>The young man in the tavern is too loud, and Brutus wishes he would shut up. He’s sitting at a table of locals who are playing a dice game, yelling about something in fractured Greek, through from the accent Brutus can tell he’s Roman. Nobody he recognizes, though that’s not to say there isn’t a veil of familiarity about him. Someone Brutus has seen in passing, maybe. He dresses more garishly than any of Brutus’s acquaintances, and he’s showing far more skin. His exposed limbs glow with suntan. Brutus feels a sudden prickling envy, for the air in the tavern is close and his legs have begun to sweat beneath the heavy skirt of his toga. The young man sits with his legs braced far apart, his own tunic shoved up over his knees. It’s indecent, but carelessly so. Brutus takes a long gulp from his cup.<br/>
</p><p>“Brutus?” Gaius Flaccus reaches across their own table and shakes him from his observations. “Where is your mind tonight?” </p><p>“Nowhere,” Brutus says. “Only tired. I think this heat goes to my head.” </p><p>The summer sun in Athens seems more piercing than in Rome. Brutus has to drag himself about if he goes anywhere between midmorning and sunset, and even after dark the streets and buildings seem to pulsate with heat. The bedroom in Brutus’s rented house bakes like a bread oven, and he cannot stand to go back to it until the dead of night, when he can open the windows and hope to catch a stray breeze, or when he’s too drunk to care. </p><p>Flaccus nods. “Too true. Do you know I nearly fainted in the street the other day? A lady pulled me into the shade and fed me honey water from a cup until I could walk again.” </p><p>“You were dreaming,” Brutus says. “She was an apparition.” </p><p>“She wasn’t. She kissed me on the forehead when I left her and bid me come and see her again. I love her. I think I shall stay here with her always.” </p><p>Brutus shakes his head and drinks his wine. Across the room the man and his compatriots are arguing, growing more animated by the minute. Something about a bet, from what Brutus can make out; the Greeks are incensed, and have accused the man of cheating. </p><p>By the overall tone Brutus can tell the man is trying to wheedle his way out of a fight, and Brutus feels diffusely embarrassed to overhear it. “This is the sort of thing that ruins our reputation in Athens,” he says. </p><p>Flaccus frowns. “What?” </p><p>“I said--” </p><p>He is interrupted by a flurry of action from across the room: the man has been unsuccessful in soothing the Greeks. One of them stands and looms over the man, who is not so slight himself; certainly he is broader in the shoulders than Brutus, though that is not difficult to achieve. The Greek reaches across the table and grabs a handful of the man’s toga. The Roman looks him in the eye and smiles.</p><p>What happens next is too quick for Brutus to mark. He has the vague impression of a thrown punch, and then the man is doubled over with a hand clutched to his face, bright blood oozing from between his fingers. Two others from the table grasp him by the shoulders and pick him up off of the floor altogether. Brutus cannot stop looking at the blood, which is copious, sheeting from the man’s face down his front. As the Greeks march him to the door he begins to laugh, a wild sound, head thrown back. His white teeth gleam. For a moment he occupies the entirety of Brutus’s vision: red and white and red and white, and as he passes Brutus he could swear he looks him straight in the eye. </p><p>The Greeks toss him out onto the street like so much detritus, then follow after him. Brutus is faintly alarmed--will no one do anything? But such is the way of taverns, he is learning. Tempers flare and fists fly, and around them the night carries on apace. From outside there’s a clatter and a series of muffled shouts, and eventually there is quiet. </p><p> After a time the men come back inside and sit back down at their table, minus the Roman. The dice game is resumed. And that should be that—certainly, Brutus has wondered many times since that night what would have happened if he’d stayed there drinking with Flaccus. Probably he would have staggered home as usual, stewed in his bed until dawn, gone about his business. Maybe everything that happened would have happened anyway. Or maybe none of it would have. </p><p>Brutus does not stay at the table. He stays perhaps half an hour longer, listening to Flaccus babble on about this woman, his savior, whom Brutus very much doubts he will ever see again. But Brutus nods and smiles and makes sympathetic noises, and after what he feels is a sufficient period of time gathers his skirt and stands, slipping off the bench with as much grace as he can manage having split an amphora of wine. </p><p>“I’m off home,” he says to Flaccus’s questioning look. </p><p>Flaccus frowns. “What, just like that?” </p><p>“The heat, as I said. I’m tired. Are you coming?” </p><p>Flaccus looks around him.  “I’ll stay awhile,” he says. The tavern is full, and Brutus recognizes several other students from the academy. Flaccus will not lack for friends if he remains. </p><p>Brutus draws out a purse and tosses it onto the table, where it lands with a promising clink and puts paid to any further protests.  “Here--for the wine. Or for your goddess, eh? An offering to Aphrodite.” </p><p>The purse contains enough to pay the tab and cover several rounds besides, and Flaccus knows Brutus will not be overly preoccupied with a return on his generosity. By the time Brutus has gone his friend will have moved on to the adjacent table. Brutus can only hope he doesn’t get himself lost later in search of companionship. </p><p>The street outside the tavern is quiet, save a group of wary cats that scatters when Brutus emerges. The moon is high in the sky, silvering buildings and flagstones. The night might be pleasant if it did not shimmer so with heat. Brutus breaks into a fresh sweat and feels yet more of his strength ebb away. How he dreads that little bedroom. Perhaps he will have the slaves cover him in a sodden sheet and sleep naked in the atrium.</p><p>He should have brought a litter, but when Flaccus came to call for him he had been momentarily seized by the idea that they ought to walk, and anyway he had not wanted the slave Tyro to know his whereabouts. A childish desire for privacy over convenience, and one Brutus is paying for now. Well, there is nothing for it now. Brutus turns to trudge  in the direction of home, but as he goes he hears a stirring, then a faint groan. Brutus pauses and stares into the shadows heaped dense as mud against the side of an adjacent building. He can just make out a huddled figure there, leaning against the wall and surrounded by refuse. As Brutus watches the figure sits up dazedly, groaning again as though it pains him to do so. </p><p>Walk away, Brutus thinks. Whomever this man is, he’s the sort who cheats at dice and gets himself tossed out of a tavern. A miscreant at best and a criminal at worst, and surely no one Brutus ought to associate with. And yet--Brutus does not walk away. He goes over to the figure and kneels before him, trying not to think about the filth that will surely stain the hem of his toga. </p><p>“Are you all right?” Brutus asks. </p><p>The man looks up at him. His face is a mask of gore. His lip is split and his nose still bleeds profusely, though the latter seems to be slowing now, blood turning gummy as it congeals. Brutus has never been so close to so much blood, save cow’s blood in the temple, and it makes him feel just as light-headed. </p><p>The man spits out a wad of phlegm. “Depends,” he says. “Did I lose any?” He grins wide at Brutus, showing his teeth. </p><p>“Not that I can see.” Brutus shakes his head. His face feels hot. The wine, the blood—he’s not himself. “You are Roman,” he says.</p><p>The man makes a show of looking Brutus over. “So’re you. What’s your name? I wonder if I know it.” </p><p>He’s drunk and slurring his words but manages to sound superior anyway. His tone suggests that either he does know Brutus’s name, because he knows the whole catalog of gens familiae, or he doesn’t because it isn’t worth knowing. Brutus draws up straighter when he introduces himself, but the man only shrugs equivocally. </p><p>“Mark Antony,” he says, which is somehow familiar to Brutus, though he cannot place it. Antony does not offer Brutus his hand, which is covered in blood. “And why are you out here squatting in the street, Brutus? Why aren’t you back in there—” here he nods at the tavern door—“slumming it with your friend?” </p><p>“I was going home,” says Brutus. “But then I saw you lying in the street and I thought you might need looking after.” </p><p>Antony snorts. “I’m not lying. I’m sitting. And have you ever looked after anyone in your life?”</p><p>Brutus ignores him. He stands up and brushes off his skirt reflexively. “Can you walk?” </p><p>“Sure I can walk.” </p><p>“Then get up.” </p><p>Antony staggers to his feet with some effort, only to cry out and double over. He gropes for Brutus reflexively, catching him about the arm.  “Rat bastards kicked me in the ribs,” he says through clenched teeth. He coughs gingerly, clutching his side. “Ah, shit. You don’t think they’re broken, do you? I’ve a friend who had his ribs kicked in. One of ‘em splintered right through his heart.” His voice pitches high and frightened. </p><p>“I think you’d be dead already,” Brutus says. </p><p>Antony groans again, uncomforted. </p><p>“Come on,” says Brutus. “You’ll come home with me tonight. If you need a doctor we shall find you one, and in the morning we’ll call a litter to take you home.” </p><p>Antony doesn’t protest. He allows Brutus to sidle up beside him and slide an arm around his waist. At Brutus’s direction Antony drapes his own arm over Brutus’s shoulder, and with Brutus taking most of his weight the two shuffle off towards Brutus’s house. As they walk Antony falls silent save for the occasional sigh or moan of pain, and the drape of his arm grows heavier. By the time they arrive at the modest oikos Brutus is fairly dragging him, and they are both drenched in sweat. The slaves take their time answering the door, and by the time the ornamented panels swing wide to admit them Brutus can no longer hold Antony up. He dumps him in a heap on the mosaiced floor of the foyer. Luckily, it seems Antony has fallen quite asleep, and so he does not notice. </p><p>The slave Tyro arrives fresh as if from a full night’s sleep, though he has doubtless sat up waiting for Brutus to return. “Really, dominus?” he says when he sees the unconscious heap of Antony. </p><p>“He was injured,” says Brutus weakly. </p><p>“How was he injured?” </p><p>“In a—there was a misunderstanding. In a tavern. Tyro, do not fret. I know what I’m about. He needs a bed, that’s all. He’ll be on his way in the morning. Prepare the guest room, will you?” </p><p>Tyro says nothing, but his bearing tells Brutus all he needs to know.  Brutus winces. That Tyro was taught to read and write so well was no mere act of charity on his mother’s part. Whatever goes on in this house, he must assume she will hear of it. But it’s too late for Brutus to worry about such things tonight; he is tired, and drunk, and Antony is already here. </p><p>When the room is ready Tyro calls for two slaves, and the two of them hoist Antony between them and carry him to the guest quarters, Tyro supervising and Brutus trailing ineffectually behind. The slaves lay Antony prone on the bed and undress him matter-of-factly, starting with his sandals. When the first is removed and Brutus catches sight of the pale sole of Antony’s bare foot he feels oddly exposed, as though he is the one being stripped. </p><p>In his own bed, Brutus tosses and turns. The room is hot just as he anticipated, as all of Athens is hot, and sleep eludes him. He throws off the sheet, tugs off his tunic to bare himself to the night. When he finally falls asleep, he does so pondering what sort of friends Mark Antony has, who have their chests kicked in and die.</p>
<hr/><p>Brutus wakes in the morning to voices. His first thought, an awful one, is that his mother has come to visit unannounced, and he has to lie in bed and listen to convince himself it is not so. Tyro would certainly have warned him, and anyway the voice he hears is a man’s, and far too jovial to be any of Brutus’s relations. </p><p>He rises and dresses and follows the voice out into the atrium. A table has been laid for breakfast, and at it sits Antony, dressed in his scant linen tunic and looking livelier than he has any right to. The blood has been cleaned from his face, but his lower lip is purple and swollen, and a crust of red clings to the edges of his nostrils. Sitting beside Antony at the table is one of the younger house slaves, who bolts upright upon seeing Brutus.</p><p>“What disrespect is this?” </p><p>Brutus would be well within his rights to have the boy whipped, and he knows it. He ducks his head. Brutus can practically see his heart racing through the thin material of his chiton. </p><p>“Don’t be cross with him,” says Antony. “I asked him to sit with me.” </p><p>Brutus frowns. He dismisses the slave with the wave of a hand, and takes his now vacant seat with no small measure of distaste. “What sort of house do you keep, Mark Antony?” </p><p>“No house at all,” Antony says. He cuts a slab of white cheese and shoves it into his mouth. </p><p>“What, really?”</p><p>Antony shrugs. </p><p>“Where are you staying here in Athens?” </p><p>Antony swallows and shrugs again. “Here and there,” he says. “I had—a patron, you could say, when I first arrived. Only we didn’t quite see eye to eye on some things. I thought it would be better if I left.” </p><p>He looks troubled. Brutus looks away, occupying himself with the pitcher of water. He pours a glass for Antony and another for himself.  By the time Antony takes the offered water cup his face is calm as a garden pond. Their fingers brush as Brutus passes the cup over. Brutus’s palms have begun to sweat, and he wipes them off on the skirt of his toga. </p><p>“How’s your head?” Brutus asks. </p><p>“Not so bad, considering.” </p><p>“Your ribs?” </p><p>He had been so worried about them. Brutus can still hear the pitch his voice made, nearly a squeak, as comes when one is approaching manhood. Antony looks variously old and young, thinks Brutus. Sometimes in the very same moment. </p><p>Antony sets his cup down. He gestures for Brutus to hold his hand out, and when he does, bemusedly, Antony clasps it and draws it to him. “Here. Feel.” </p><p>Brutus tries to pull back, but Antony holds him fast. “How am I to know if they’re broken? You said you’d fetch a doctor if I needed it.” </p><p>When he seems content Brutus will not turn and run he unclasps the fabric at his shoulder and bares the right side of his torso in a bronze plane from nipple to hipbone. He is well-built, and the whole of him is tan, though his skin grows lighter lower down as though he has been brushed with milk.</p><p>He gestures to Brutus again—<i>Come on</i>—and Brutus advances as though bidden by an unseen force. He can perhaps  appreciate a very faint bruise spilling over the right ribs. When he runs his fingers over it he finds the skin there hot. Antony shudders. </p><p>“I’ve barely touched you,” Brutus murmurs. “Does it hurt very badly?” </p><p>“A little.” </p><p>“Do you think you need a doctor?” </p><p>Brutus hopes not. A doctor will invent some manner of affliction that requires an elaborate treatment at an exorbitant cost, and then there is the matter of where Antony will receive it, having no house to return to. Back in Rome the Junii have a family doctor, whom his mother has no fear of sending the slaves out to haggle with. Brutus doesn’t know who he would call on here. </p><p>Antony winces and lowers his tunic. “I suppose not.”</p><p>“Perhaps we could send Tyro to the market for a salve.” </p><p>Antony brightens at the mention of the market. “Or we could go,” he says. </p><p>“I don’t know,” says Brutus. I’m very busy.” </p><p>Antony huffs. “With what?” </p><p>“I’m not here at my leisure, you know. I’m supposed to be studying.” </p><p>“You can study any day,” says Antony with a wave of his hand. </p><p>The exuberant youth has returned. Antony straightens his toga, repinning it at his shoulder with a brightly enameled clasp. The pin bears the stylized image of a wolf’s head in profile, mouth open, red tongue slavering. Something about the image is familiar, though much like Antony himself Brutus cannot recall if he has seen it before. </p><p>“I’ll buy you something,” Antony continues. “A gift for your house. A token of my thanks for your hospitality.” He shoves a hunk of bread into his mouth and rises, bouncing on the balls of his sandaled feet.</p><p>“You don’t need to buy me anything,” Brutus says, annoyed. He wants to gesture around him, tell Antony that there is nothing he could possibly buy for this house Brutus couldn’t afford himself. But he doesn’t. Watching Antony he can already feel his irritation and resistance waning in the face of Antony’s excitement. </p><p>He makes Antony wait until he’s eaten. Not much, for Brutus dislikes the heavy feeling of a full stomach in the heat, but enough to chase away any lingering sourness from last night’s wine.</p><p>They leave Tyro at home, though he loiters near the door reproachfully as they leave the house and start along the steamy, late morning street. The sky above is a pale, scorched blue, and the light is harsh. They are both covered with a sheen of sweat already, though Antony wears his well, looking merely as though he has been oiled. Brutus knows how he looks in the heat: bedraggled, febrile, but if Antony is put off by his appearance he does not let on. </p><p>As they walk Brutus casts his eyes up at the windows of the houses alongside them, and wonders if one of them conceals Gaius Flaccus, abed in the arms of his Grecian lover. He cannot help but smile at the thought. </p><p>“What are you grinning about?” asks Antony.</p><p>“I was thinking of my friend.” </p><p>“That aristo you were with last night? Looked like he has as big a stick up his arse as you do.” </p><p> Brutus ignores the jibe. “It seems he has fallen quite in love with Greece.” </p><p>“And what about you?” </p><p>“It’s all right, I suppose.” </p><p>Antony snorts. “Just all right? You can do better than that. Whatever will you tell your friends when you get home?” </p><p>“That I am well-versed in Stoic philosophy. That I’m ready to begin my political career.”  </p><p>Antony stares at him a moment, as though waiting for something. Then he hoots with laughter. “Gods, you’re serious,” he gasps. “I thought you were joking.” </p><p>Brutus bristles. “I am not a boy at play, Antony. I am a man, a son of the house of the Junii. There are expectations.” </p><p>“Of course there are,” Antony says. “My most sincere apologies.” But he has his hand set against his mouth, and as they continue towards the market Brutus can hear him snort at intervals. </p><p>The market spans several city blocks, sprawling across the open square and down the streets beyond. It bustles frenetically as does any Roman market; as bright, as florid, as pungent. Brutus does not come here often, preferring to send a house slave with a list or Tyro for the most important errands, but by Antony’s sharp-eyed look and the decisive way he squires Brutus about he is no stranger to the maze of stalls. </p><p>They are elbow to elbow with all the rabble of Athens, yet Antony moves blithely through the crowd with a grace that belies his brutishness. The purpose of their visit is ostensibly to procure a salve for his bruised ribs, yet he seems to have forgotten this all together. He blathers like a housewife: here are the finest fish in the city, here flowers, as though Brutus cares about those. Here is a bookseller. </p><p>“Thought you’d like that,” he says, sounding pleased with himself to see the way Brutus’s eyes widen. </p><p>Brutus is not listening, having turned to run his fingers over a hide-bound collection of philosophical treatises he has never before seen collected. The bookseller patrols the center of the stall, his expression equal parts watchful and greedy. He sees Brutus’s rich garments and patrician bearing and represses the clear desire to reprimand him for touching the merchandise. By the time Antony returns Brutus has an armful of books and is fingering a particularly lovely stylus, the cost of which is exorbitant even by his standards. Brutus has expensive taste, but only out of habit and a love for quality. He is not profligate, and he certainly has no need for a stylus of gold, which is soft and thus impractical. He hands it back to the seller with a regretful sigh. </p><p>“Perhaps another time,” he says. “It is very finely made.” </p><p>“One of a kind,” says the seller in smoothest Latin. “Not likely to be here when you return.” </p><p>Brutus stifles a groan and turns back to Antony.“Take me away from here, before I spend half the household budget on—Gods, what is that smell?”</p><p>Antony smells like he has tripped and fallen into a garden in the peak of summer, having also rolled through a puddle of civet piss and perhaps a baker’s oven on the way. He proffers a wrist to Brutus. </p><p>“Try that,” he says. “I think it would suit you.” </p><p>“Perfume gives me a headache,” Brutus says, but he obeys. </p><p>This particular patch of skin smells of musk and smoke, as though someone has made the gods an offering of some rare sweet-burning wood. Brutus’s face warms. He cannot imagine anyone would smell this and think of him. He grimaces, withdraws. </p><p>“Don’t you like it?” </p><p>“It’s fine. But <i>you</i> smell like a budget concubine.” </p><p>“The ladies’ selection is always much more interesting,” Antony says. His tone is defiant, but his face has fallen and he shifts uncomfortably as on hot sand.  </p><p>Brutus nods at his wrist. “Was that ladies’ perfume?” </p><p>“Of course not. Too boring.” </p><p>Brutus ignores the implication. Of course he’s boring; he ought not to be anything else. He’s been destined for it since birth: a staid political life. If all goes to plan the most excitement Brutus will see for the rest of his days should come sitting in the audience at a triumph, and even then he will probably avert his eyes. </p><p>Antony has made a purchase from the perfume seller, but he won’t show Brutus what it is. Bruised ribs forgotten, they leave the marketplace and begin to walk back in the direction of Brutus’s house. They walk in a silence that Brutus would not quite call companionable, Antony’s earlier exuberance somewhat dulled, perhaps by the heat, but maybe also by Brutus’s low opinion of his choice of scent. He keeps glancing behind them, pausing here and there so that Brutus stumbles into him. </p><p>“What are you doing?” </p><p>“Nothing,” Antony says. But as they continue on he only grows more fractious. He seems to fear some pursuit, and for the first time today Brutus feels the absence of a slave. He carries a knife at his mother’s and Tyro’s insistence, but he’s hopeless with it, liable to do himself more injury than any assailant. If Antony were to lead them into some altercation Brutus doesn’t know what he would do. </p><p>He’s about to ask Antony what is going on when Antony draws up sharply and drags Brutus into an alley off the street proper, not unlike the winding street outside the tavern. “Listen,” says Antony. “I’ve got to go.” He looks as though he wants to bolt. His hands are busy at his sides, clasping and unclasping. </p><p>“Go? Where?” </p><p>“Something’s--come up. Here, take this.” Antony thrusts a hide pouch into Brutus’s hands, smacks him lightly on the bicep. “Thanks for last night. “I’ll see you around, eh?” </p><p>And with that, he turns and jogs up the alley, which narrows until it approaches two houses, between which Antony seems to melt and disappear as though he were never there at all. </p><p>Brutus stands for a moment and watches, half expecting Antony to pop back into the alley and congratulate himself on a very funny joke. But when he does not emerge Brutus steps back onto the street and moves slowly forward, letting faster traffic flow around him as though he’s a boulder set in the middle of a river. How strange Mark Antony is. How unlikely that they should ever have run across one another here in Athens, so near yet so far from home.<br/>
Brutus shakes his head and picks up his pace. By the time he reaches the house he is once again dizzy with the heat, and once inside he retires to his bedroom to lie down. He still has hold of the little pouch, which he empties onto the bed. Inside is an amber glass bottle, sealed with a stopper. Brutus eases the stopper free and raises the bottle to his face. He smells musk and smoke. In spite of himself, he smiles.</p>
<hr/><p>The following night sees Brutus lying in a half-sleep, the windows thrown open against the heat, Tyro drowsing on a couch outside the door. It must make the man feel better to know Brutus is secure, or else Brutus’s mother  gives him some favor for it. Brutus always shudders to think of his mother’s influence stretching so far from Rome. He imagines her long pale fingers tracing a path across the map, stroking over Athens where it lies along the curve of the sea, and twitches as though she has poked him in the ribs. It might be this he’s dreaming of as he tosses to and fro on the bed, or it might be some other anxiety-provoking image. Whatever it is he is primed to rouse, so that when he hears someone crawl in through the window he is on his feet, flimsy blade drawn, before he is even fully awake. </p><p>“Put that down before you hurt yourself,” says Antony, though he sounds shocked, like he’s playing at nonchalance and failing. </p><p>Brutus blinks at him, not entirely certain Antony is not a figment. He is standing just inside the window. His toga is torn, and his face is bloody again. Brutus is about to demand something of him—what, exactly, he does not know—when Tyro bursts in, brandishing a much more formidable blade in a much more practiced hand. </p><p>“It’s all right, Tyro,” says Brutus, arm thrust out to stay him. </p><p>“Dominus—” </p><p>“Go back to sleep.” </p><p>“Dominus, I must protest—” </p><p>“It is not your place to protest,” says Brutus. “You will send someone with wine and then you will leave us.”<br/>
He doesn’t know why it feels so essential to be alone with Antony now; Brutus only knows he must be, perhaps by the wild set of Antony’s eyes, the way they range over the room and back out into the darkness. </p><p>“Sit,” Brutus says to Antony when Tyro has brought the wine. Antony sits on the bed and drains two cups in rapid succession. </p><p>“There,” says Brutus. “You’ve got your colour back. Now you can tell me what, by the gods, you think you are doing. What if I’d not awakened? Tyro would have killed you. My mother has always said we must have the very fiercest body slaves. That they are the backbone of any house.” </p><p>Antony rolls his eyes. “Not your precious name?” </p><p>“Even beaten you are insolent.” Brutus reaches out and brushes his fingers over a bloodstain on the hem of Antony’s toga. His bare knees are skinned like a child’s; Brutus imagines a desperate escape, Antony falling in his haste.</p><p>“Who has done this?” he asks. “Did you go back to that awful tavern?” </p><p>“No,” says Antony. “Well. Yes. But it wasn’t them that caused the trouble.” He frowns at Brutus and tugs the toga out of his hands, where Brutus is worrying the linen. He smooths it over his thighs. “I need a favor,” he says. </p><p>“What favor? Money?” Brutus clucks. “Oh, have you got in over your head at dice? Gaius Flaccus did that once, it was rather embarrassing for everyone.” </p><p>Antony laughs. The bitterness in it draws Brutus up short.  </p><p>“Do you know why I came to Athens in the first place?” </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Antony starts to say something, but then he stops himself and shakes his head. “Nevermind. Hey, listen. Brutus. Do you think I could be an orator?” </p><p>Brutus hesitates. “I think you like to talk.” </p><p>Antony begins to laugh. It begins as a giggle, but it doesn’t take long for it to pitch high and hysterical, looping up out of Antony’s body, seeming to fill the whole of the room. It takes Brutus aback to see the way it seizes Antony and sends him sprawling into spasm. </p><p>“Why is that so funny?” </p><p>Antony doesn’t reply. Gradually the laughter leaves him and he lies limply on the bed. Periodically he whimpers like a pup, limbs twitching. He lies so still that Brutus thinks he must have fallen asleep. His eyes are closed, and his face in repose truly betrays his youth, dark hair falling in a tangle over his forehead, dark lashes against his smooth cheek. Brutus has to quell the desire to comb his fingers through that hair, to set it to rights. He doesn’t know where the urge arises from, for Brutus is not given to care-taking. </p><p>When he was younger he sometimes found himself the recipient of strange gifts, attempts by men to curry favor with his mother. Once he was given a finch in a cage. Though he liked to look at it he found its flutters and chirrups broke his concentration, and so he had it moved elsewhere in the house. He forgot about it, and later found it cold and dead. He recalls seeing its little body curled on the bottom of the cage, dusty and diminished. He had been filled with regret. He had resented himself and then the giver for tasking him with the bird’s stewardship in the first place. </p><p>And so it goes with Brutus, who has always much to think about, and little time to give to others, and few to demand it of him.</p><p>“Antony?” </p><p>No response. Brutus shakes him by the arm.“You ought to bathe. You’re getting dirt all over the bed.” </p><p>“Mmm. In the morning.” </p><p>Brutus sighs. He should call for the slaves and have them ready the guest room again, but he can’t be bothered. He harasses Antony into removing his sandals, which he kicks into separate corners of the room, and then into moving over so there is room on the bed for both of them. When the lamp is out again Brutus lies in the dark and listens to Antony’s raspy, open-mouthed breathing until he falls into a doze. </p><p>He sleeps poorly with someone beside him; he keeps forgetting about Antony and startling himself, and now and then Antony kicks out or exclaims in his sleep. Once he sits up altogether, eyes unseeing, arms raised as though to fend someone off, and Brutus guides him back down onto the mattress and tells him sternly to go back to sleep. Antony grumbles, but he seems to listen, for he falls into a heavy slumber and shortly after Brutus follows. </p><p>Brutus wakes in the morning in a sweat, pinned to the bed by a great weight. Antony has rolled sideways in the night and slung a leg over both of Brutus’s own. He extricates himself and lies on his side, still drowsy, letting his eyes drift in and out of focus over Antony in the foreground and the buttery light coming in through the window, reaching for the shaded corners of the room and promising another scorching high summer day. </p><p>Antony stirs, opening his eyes to the ceiling before turning to face Brutus, one arm pillowed beneath his head. There’s a fleeting moment in which he appears worried, but it is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a lascivious grin. </p><p>“Hello there.” </p><p>Brutus sits up and presses his back against the wall. “So you’ve lived to tell the tale yet again.” </p><p>Antony has the good grace to look abashed. “About that—” </p><p>“You may stay here, you know. As my guest, like—like normal people. But you may not climb through my window in the middle of the night like an assassin. Anyone might see, and think—” </p><p>“Think what? That you’re associating with the ill-bred? That you’ve taken a lover? Ooh, an ill-bred lover, even.” Antony sprawls on his back again, kicks off the sheet and bends one knee, his toga riding high on his bare thigh. </p><p>Brutus looks away. “They may think that my house is not in order.” </p><p>“On about your house again. Your house, your name.” </p><p>“I am an envoy here, Antony. I will not have word reach Rome that I have conducted myself unbecomingly.” </p><p>Antony snorts. “Big talk for a man scarcely into his toga. Surely you may do as you please and let your father absorb the consequences. At least, that’s how the story goes for all the sons of Rome I’ve been acquainted with.” He raises an eyebrow, as though he wishes Brutus to know he’s been acquainted with many. </p><p>“My father has been dead since I was a boy. So you see there is no one to absorb anything. Only me.” This shuts Antony up. Brutus prays he will not apologize for his misstep. He can think of nothing worse than to have to reassure him.</p><p> “Well,” says Antony presently. “I’m fucking starving. Have you got any of that cheese from the other day?” </p><p>“This isn’t an inn.” </p><p>“You offered. So now I’m your guest, aren’t I. Pretty poor form that would be, to let a houseguest starve.” </p><p>“Is this how you behaved with your last host? It’s no wonder you parted badly.” </p><p>Antony stiffens. Apparently it is Brutus’s turn to put a foot wrong, and to his dismay he feels an apology taking shape on his own tongue though he doesn’t know quite what for. </p><p>“Breakfast,” he says, attempting to sound decisive. He rises and calls for Tyro to dress him. Antony watches the process from the bed, appearing bored, though Brutus doesn’t miss the way Antony’s eyes dart over him as though marking something Brutus himself is unaware of. </p><p>“Tyro, fetch our guest a change of clothing and bring it to him in the bath,” says Brutus. He nods at Antony’s toga. “Are you awfully attached to that? We can wash it, but I don’t know if the stains will come out. What do you think, Tyro?” </p><p>“Perhaps not, Dominus.” </p><p>“I can scrub a bloodstain,” Antony, sounding piqued. “Don’t put yourself out, Tyro.” He strips the toga off without ceremony and begins to inspect the grain of the fabric as though there is nothing more engrossing in the world. He does not speak again until Tyro leaves, with Brutus’s laundry and without Antony’s. </p><p>“He’s a bit haughty, isn’t he, Tyro.” </p><p>“He knows the running of a house far better than I do.” </p><p>“You’d say so of a slave?” </p><p>“It’s the truth. Mother said she sent him with me so I wouldn’t starve or burn the house down. She said she didn’t trust Athenian slaves, although we’ve friends here, of course, who offered to lend us theirs. So I brought Tyro and a handful of others, and Tyro vetted the rest. Now he manages the lot of them, and spies on me, of course.” </p><p>Antony laughs. </p><p>“I am quite serious. Perhaps he’s writing a letter to my mother even now. Or will, anyway, once he’s seen to your bath.”  </p><p>“For what purpose?” </p><p>“Haven’t you a mother?” </p><p>“You have no father,” says Antony darkly. “Why should I have a mother? Or a father, for that matter.” </p><p>“I didn’t mean—” </p><p>“Forget it,” says Antony. “I’ll have that bath now. Though it’s been in fashion, I think, to have dirty men lounge about your house. There was that fad for gladiator sweat, do you remember? They used to sell it outside the forum. People wore it like perfume, drank it to make their cocks harder.” </p><p>Brutus wrinkles his nose. “My mother has a particular friend,” he says, thinking of Atia. “She seems the sort to go in for gladiator sweat.” </p><p>Antony wears only his tunic, which is shorter than the toga. This he carries balled in his hands, hovering strategically above his crotch. He lifts one hand now, slowly, as though to proffer his arm. “You’re welcome to have a go yourself.” </p><p>“You’re no gladiator. And anyway, this room is infernal in the morning. I’ve plenty of my own sweat already.” </p><p>“That’s funny,” Antony says. “You look quite cool to me.” And then he walks past Brutus into the bathroom as though he’s been there a thousand times before. </p><p>At breakfast Antony sits cross-legged like a soldier, making short work of his bread and cheese. He eats as though unsure he will see food again. Brutus finds the bread a little stale, the cheese oily from sitting out too long, but Antony makes no comment on either, simply hunches over the plate in his lap, legs tangled in the long skirt of his borrowed toga. He tugs the linen this way and that, until at last he abandons his efforts at a subtle adjustment, sighs angrily and sets his plate to the side so he can hitch the toga over his knees again. </p><p>“Have you some objection to material about your ankles?” </p><p>“As you said, it’s hot.” </p><p>Brutus suspects Antony dresses so even in the chill of a Roman winter, but he makes no further comment. They pass the rest of the meal quietly, alone save the slaves who advance now and then to pour their honey water, to clear the plates. Having a guest in the house is strange; at home the guests are never expressly for him, and he can come and go as he likes with a muttered excuse once he’s made a long enough appearance. </p><p><i>Brutus is quite captivated by his study of Greek</i> his mother might say, and from there she and her visitor might descend into some further discussion, and Brutus would be free to retreat. There is no retreat from Antony, who seems to have cleaved irrevocably to his role as houseguest. After breakfast Brutus rises, intending to take his cup of water into the library. Antony bounds to his feet too, an eagerness about him like a dog anticipating play. </p><p>“I must study,” Brutus says at the threshold of the library, trying to conjure apology rather than annoyance. </p><p>Antony follows him in, unable to take the hint, and when Brutus chooses a volume of Plato and begins to read he begins pacing about, running his fingers over the furniture and humming loudly to himself. </p><p>“Please, sit,” says Brutus, without looking at him. </p><p>“I’m all right.” </p><p>
  <i>“Sit.”</i>
</p><p>“Fine,” says Antony, and flops back onto the couch beside Brutus. He has as much difficulty sitting still here as he did at the breakfast table. He moves constantly, sighs and fidgets. Brutus can no more concentrate in his presence than he could in the presence of the caged bird, only he cannot move Antony aside. </p><p>After a period of strained silence in which Brutus manages to absorb perhaps half a page he curses softly and sets the volume down. </p><p>“Finished?” </p><p>“For now, I suppose.” </p><p>“I had an idea while I was sitting here waiting for you.” Antony looks perturbed, as though he’s the one who has been inconvenienced. </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“The weather is stifling in the city. I say we go out on horseback. I know a place not half a day’s ride—it’s a secret, but I don’t mind telling you.” He rests his head on the back of the couch and regards Brutus through his eyelashes.  </p><p>“I can’t just—” </p><p>“Why not? It’s too hot to work. It’s too hot even to drink. All the taverns will be seething with Greeks getting pissed and throwing their weight around.”</p><p>“Is that what happened to you last night?” </p><p>“Maybe,” says Antony. </p><p>His cheek is still dappled with bruising, though he looks considerably neater cleansed of blood. Brutus cannot recall the last time he himself bled, and here he is mopping it up twice over. He’s beginning to feel a little like a gladiator himself. </p><p>“Have you even been out of the city since you arrived? Or have you been shut up in here with your books, or out drinking in the most boring little tavernas filled with Romans?” </p><p>“You were there too.” </p><p>Brutus has never given much thought to how he’s perceived by others; the very fact of their perception has often seemed an afterthought, as when one eats a meal in a great hurry, distracted by untangling some problem, and moved on only to discover later one has gone about with something between his teeth. Brutus forgets that people look at him, that he is present in their thoughts. He wonders suddenly how he appears to Antony, whom he’s spent so much time considering already.  Suddenly, he finds it matters to him. He chooses to ignore how disconcerting this is. </p><p>“Fine,” Brutus says, getting to his feet. “Let us go.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brutus hasn’t ridden horseback in months, and the mare Antony selects for him is skittish, dancing along the white, winding road out of Athens as though she is expecting to be accosted at any moment. Perhaps, thinks Brutus, Antony chose the horse deliberately to make himself seem more capable. He handles his own mount, a bay gelding, with irritating skill. </p>
<p>“You ride often?” </p>
<p>“When it suits me,” Antony says. “I suppose you travel by litter.” </p>
<p>“When it suits me.” </p>
<p>Brutus squints into the bright, cloudless sky. It doesn’t often occur to him to tax his body. When he does so he ceases to think, and that state is never desirable. Just now, for example, he is thinking of Zeno: his treatise on Stoicism, the four stages of attaining true knowledge. He lets go of one rein for a moment and spreads his palm wide against the mare’s withers. <i>Perception,</i> said Zeno, <i>is a thing like this.</i> Brutus often feels he perceives either too much or too little, but mostly the latter. </p>
<p>A sudden hot wind shakes a bush at the roadside. The dry leaves rattle like peas into a pot and the mare leaps sideways, stumbling against Antony’s horse.  Brutus curses and lists to one side. Already unsteady, the shying mare nearly launches him out of the saddle. He fumbles, clutching a handful of mane to keep from losing his seat entirely. </p>
<p>“Hello,” exclaims Antony. “What’re you doing, Thisbe?” </p>
<p>Antony leans into Brutus and braces with his shoulder, arresting his downward slide. He grabs for Brutus’s reins to check the mare and keep her from surging forward. She snorts and tenses, and Brutus thinks she is surely about to rear or buck and dump him in the dirt, but Antony gentles her, dropping his own reins to get a hand free to scratch her neck. </p>
<p> “There’s a girl,” he says. “It’s all right.” </p>
<p>Using Antony’s shoulder as leverage Brutus clambers upright again, and to his surprise the mare calms and settles into an easy walk beside Antony even when he releases her, as though she were never frightened at all. </p>
<p>Brutus’s heart is rabbiting in his chest. Antony seems barely affected, not even breathing heavily. He reaches for Brutus and grips his upper arm as though to soothe him also. Startled, Brutus shrugs away, and Antony takes up his reins again. </p>
<p>“All right?” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Brutus says. </p>
<p>“Walk her close beside Xanthos here,” says Antony. “He’s steadier. Sorry, I should have taken her. Do you want to trade?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” says Brutus. When his hands have nearly stopped shaking he takes a swig from his water skin. </p>
<p>“Suit yourself,” says Antony. </p>
<p>They fall into an uneasy silence, broken only by Antony’s tuneless whistling. He leads them down the coast to a roughed out crag down a cowpath some ways from a quiet fork in the road. By the time they turn onto the path they have seen no other travelers for at least an hour. Antony dismounts to piss luxuriously, turning his face to the sky and baring his arse to Brutus and the horses in a display of atavism Brutus does not wish to try and understand. He groans in pleasure and Brutus tries not to hear it, instead muttering lines of Zeno’s treatise as though at prayer in a temple. </p>
<p>“Nearly there,” Antony says. He turns to grin at Brutus, making a show of shaking his cock before tucking himself away again. He continues on foot, walking beside his horse and holding Brutus’s reins in a way that makes him feel like a woman being escorted. When they reach their destination he half expects to be helped down, and he dismounts on the mare’s far side to discourage  it. </p>
<p>They leave the horses on a clifftop, loosening their girths and tying them on a long rein to graze. Rippling blue-green grass stretches as far as Brutus can see, meeting the sea below the cliffs with only the slightest shift in color. </p>
<p>“Come on,” says Antony. </p>
<p>They shoulder their packs and Antony leads them in a scrabble down the cliffside along a barely visible footpath. Brutus slips along behind him, skidding on the loose dirt in his sandals. Antony clambers ahead with a kind of brutish confidence Brutus has never possessed himself, half running, half tripping down the track, losing his footing, tumbling onto the sand and laughing. The display embarrasses Brutus, though he cannot say why. After all, they are alone, with no one to pass judgement on his choice of company. </p>
<p>The beach is beautiful, cupped within cliffs on either side, a pale curl running gold to cream where it meets the sea. The cliffs cast wide wedges of shade onto the sand, dark against the brilliant sun. Antony spoke true; the beach is deserted, and he wastes no time in stripping his clothes off, as though he has been waiting for this moment for their entire ride. He leaves his toga where it falls and kicks his sandals off, mincing over the hot sand to the shoreline, looking back when he reaches it to call for Brutus. </p>
<p>“Aren’t you coming in?” </p>
<p>Brutus waves him off and goes to sit in a long obelisk of shade. Save paddling in the odd bath he has never learned to swim; as a child there was a villa in the country but it was far from the coast, and he only sees the ocean now where it laps and stews beneath the docks at ports that sink of fish and sewage. On the trip over he was abominably seasick, retching into the drink, and he thought that he would do well never to see the sea again after this, never to travel at all if he can help it. </p>
<p>He watches Antony wade into the surf and kick at the spume, looking as though he might snap at the very breeze like a dog at play. He runs into the waves and Brutus watches the dark wet gleam of his head until he ducks under. </p>
<p>Even here in the shade Brutus is hot; sweat pricks at his scalp and clings to his back, and he has to resist the urge to shrug out of his own toga. He stretches out, leans back on his elbows and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t notice Antony returning from the water until he is nearly upon him, close enough that the fat drops of seawater that fall from his body shower down onto Brutus like little points of ice on his chest and his arms. </p>
<p>Thus alerted he looks up. What he sees arrests him, causing him to suck in a harsh and mortifying breath. Antony has no soft, scrawny noble’s body like Brutus’s own. Antony seems so much more a man than he. He is well-muscled; Brutus said before he was no gladiator, but indeed he can see some glimpse of the arena here, the look of a man who uses his body hard and rewards it in equal measure, who will run himself footsore only to drink and cavort all night. His calves are rounded like a dancer’s, his thighs thick as young trees and dark with the same thick hair that coalesces at the base of his cock, which Brutus cannot look at directly. </p>
<p>“It’s freezing,” Antony says, hugging himself. “It feels wonderful. You’ve got to come in.” </p>
<p>“Can’t swim,” says Brutus, squinting up at him, a great dark shape against the violent blue sky. </p>
<p>“You’re joking. Well get up, I’ll teach you.” </p>
<p>“What, in the sea?” </p>
<p>“No, in that fish pond over there. It’s calm as a bath, Brutus. Come on.” </p>
<p>He holds a hand out. Brutus watches a drop of water as it runs down his arm, along a ropy vein standing out there against the muscle. All of Antony seems to shimmer as though he’s been oiled. Brutus finds he can no longer think at all, and it is this lapse in logic that must explain why he gives Antony his hand and allows himself to be tugged up to his feet. </p>
<p>Antony gestures at his clothing. “Off,” he says. </p>
<p>“But--” </p>
<p>“You think you won’t drown in that? It’ll pull you right under. Take it off.” He stands with imperial authority, arms crossed over his broad chest as he waits for Brutus to undress. </p>
<p>Brutus has not historically cared much about his body; he knows it is spare,  neither larger nor smaller than it needs to be, and he finds some instrumental satisfaction in this.  But next to Antony Brutus feels as some half formed thing, staggering and incompetent. He resists the urge to cover himself when Antony looks at him, resists the desire to try and read in Antony’s face some look of approval.</p>
<p>The sun is warm on his back and buttocks as he follows Antony down to the water. The sea is not calm as a bath, in Brutus’s estimation. Icy waves lap at his feet and the deeper shallows seem to shiver and chop. They wade out to waist depth and Antony turns to face him. The cold has crept into their bodies, gooseflesh rising on their skin despite the sun. Antony shivers, his nipples hardened to points, and Brutus feels a corresponding tightness about his own chest. Antony’s hair is long and wild, curling dark over his forehead and temples, and as Brutus watches he sucks a lock of it into his mouth. To taste the salt, he says, when Brutus looks at him with curiosity.  </p>
<p>“Lie on your back,” says Antony. He watches Brutus with an avid expression. </p>
<p>Brutus finds he is frightened. He has not felt this sort of fear in a long time, the fear of the dark, the vast unknown. The emotion startles him and he quails against it. Why is he here? Why is he allowing this? Perhaps Antony will leave him, perhaps Antony will drown him. He has been taught suspicion, learned it by rote as a child in his mother’s lap, but in the last two days he seems to have forgotten all about it. </p>
<p>Antony is smiling at him, his face open. “Trust me.” </p>
<p>When Brutus’s feet leave the sandy bottom he kicks out reflexively, driving his head and neck beneath the surface. The water is frigid and heavy with salt, and Brutus comes up spluttering, panicked, ears pounding. <i>Enough,</i> he thinks around the din. He tries to struggle upright, but succeeds only in dunking his head back into the water.</p>
<p>At once Antony’s hands are behind his head and on his belly, steadying him as surely as he had the mare. “Breathe,” he says to Brutus. “Slowly. Fill your breast with air and see how it keeps you above water.” Antony looks down at him with great concentration until he appears satisfied Brutus is following instructions. </p>
<p>“There,” Antony says at last.“Now we float.” And he kicks up off the bottom himself, aligning himself with Brutus in the water, linking their arms so they lie side by side, inseparable. </p>
<p>“This is not swimming,” Brutus says after a few minutes. </p>
<p>“No. But it is pleasant, isn’t it? Keep breathing. If you exhale you begin to sink. You cannot swim if you’re afraid. You’ll only panic, and if you panic in the water you’ll really be fucked.” </p>
<p>“I’m not afraid.” </p>
<p>“I said if.” Antony’s clear diplomacy embarrasses Brutus into silence. It is pleasant to lie here, moving gently, cold water at their backs and sun warm on their chests. </p>
<p>“How did you learn to swim?” </p>
<p>“I flung myself into the Tiber.” </p>
<p>“Why on earth would you do that?” </p>
<p>Antony hums. “Extenuating circumstances. I—stole some bread, and the baker set his dog on me. Great vicious brute. I thought I could outrun him, but I was only a boy, and I hadn’t got the legs. He ran me down to the riverbank and cornered me. I didn’t think about it, really. It was into the river or wait around to be mauled to bits.”</p>
<p>He recounts this almost happily, as though recalling a benign daydream, and settles into silence again, saying no more on the subject. Brutus has questions, but feels impolite asking them. They drift together in silence, and Brutus is beginning to be calm enough to think about philosophy again when Antony abruptly lets go of him, dives below and disappears. </p>
<p>Brutus tenses, immediately flipping upright. They have floated further from the beach and into deeper water, and when he kicks he can no longer feel the sand below him. He feels a vague fear but his immediate concern is for Antony, who for long moments is nowhere to be seen. Brutus calls out for him once, twice. He has just begun to despair when Antony surfaces before him, laughing and spitting, hair a weedy, shining mass. </p>
<p>“Gods, I thought—” </p>
<p>Antony splashes him in the face. His vision is blurred and in the time it takes to clear it Antony vanishes, diving below again. Brutus’s relief is quickly replaced by irritation. Without thinking he strikes out after Antony, pulling himself through the water, groping for some slick limb, catching an ankle here, a knee there. Antony surges out of the water again and grabs Brutus by the hip. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” demands Brutus. </p>
<p>“Swimming with you,” Antony says. He’s smiling. </p>
<p>He is always smiling, Brutus thinks, even when he was bruised and bloody and picking himself off the street, even when he was climbing in Brutus’s window. Under the water their bare legs slide together, and Antony is right, he is swimming, treading water without thinking about it, head empty of anything practical, of anything at all.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They straggle up the cliffs at the close of the day as the light begins to temper and deepen. Brutus is salt-crusted and pleasantly tired. He has put his toga back on with no tunic underneath it, in the style of his uncle. At the top of the cliff path he turns and looks back over his shoulder at the beach, where long claws of shadow have begun to stripe the sand across their little cove. </p>
<p>Antony nudges him. “What?” </p>
<p>“Just looking.” </p>
<p>“Pretty, hmm?” </p>
<p>“It’s lovely,” says Brutus. “Thank you for bringing me here.” </p>
<p>He realizes belatedly how close they’re standing, Antony still bare-chested, having knotted his toga at the waist. His color seems to have deepened over the course of the last several hours, his hair and eyes glowing all the richer for it. </p>
<p>Brutus can feel the throb of sunburn across his own back and shoulders; in time this will fade and make his own skin golden, so that when he looks at himself in the mirror he’ll remember the smell of the ocean. When he touches himself he will feel the sun’s heat against his fingers. </p>
<p>Antony reaches out and spreads his palm over the nape of Brutus’s neck, rubbing his thumb over Brutus’s aching skin and humming as though displeased by what he sees. Something about the weight of his hand, his gaze, makes Brutus want to shut his eyes and let his head fall forward. If he does, his head will rest upon Antony’s chest, and the prospect is both exciting and terrifying to him, the same fear he felt in the ocean, his whole body alight with it, all his senses heightened.  </p>
<p>“Shit,” Antony says. </p>
<p>He has turned to look up at the field above the beach. He drops his hand and steps away from Brutus. “Shit, shit, the horses.”Then he is away, charging the rest of the way up the track. </p>
<p>Brutus straightens his spine. Instantly it’s as though they were never touching. Brutus’s acute awareness flees him as though it were never there, and he follows Antony up the path with the feeling he has stepped out of the sun and into a patch of deep shade. </p>
<p>The horses, left dumbly grazing several hours previous, are now nowhere to be seen. Antony is more flustered than Brutus has yet seen him, aside from that strange afternoon when he disappeared on their way back from the marketplace. He paces in a circle, and here and there he breaks out running, though there is nowhere to go, for this plain before the coastline stretches flat in all directions, punctuated only by scrub and stands of low trees, and not a single horse. </p>
<p>“Thieves, don’t you think? Or—maybe they just got loose.” </p>
<p>“We shouldn’t have left them,” Brutus says dully. He is too sun-sapped to be angry, as though Antony has sucked all the agitation out of Brutus and into himself. </p>
<p>“What were we supposed to do? They couldn’t come down to the beach, they’d have broken their legs.” </p>
<p>Brutus doesn’t know what they were supposed to do. He knows only that he is tired and that the horses aren’t here, and the ride back to Athens, which he was already dreading, has now become vastly preferable to the imminent alternative. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak he claps it shut again. He had had the impulse to order Antony to walk to the road and flag down someone in a cart, to run to Athens for a litter, to fix things. But Antony is no slave, no subordinate of his. Brutus has no right to order him to do anything. He scarcely even has the right to ask. </p>
<p>He drops into a squat, fiddling with the long, tickling grasses that nod around him. He picks one and pops the tender root into his mouth. He watches Antony groan and pace some more, watches the sun drop lower towards the sea. At last he gets to his feet. </p>
<p>“Come on,” he says. </p>
<p>“Maybe we should look—” </p>
<p>“They’re gone,” Brutus says. “When we get back to the city I shall send Tyro to the stables and have him pay the horse master.” </p>
<p>Antony’s face is tight with worry. “He won’t be happy.” </p>
<p>“He’ll be happy enough with coin,” says Brutus. “Come on,” he says again. </p>
<p>He doesn’t know where this authority comes from; it feels unfamiliar, like a new pair of sandals that must be worn in. But he strides past Antony up the path anyway, shouldering his pack, and walks towards the main road. He can feel Antony’s eyes on his back, and after a moment he hears Antony sigh and start after him. </p>
<p>They slow gradually as night falls. Outside the city the heat is less oppressive, or perhaps it’s just the absence of buildings which block the faint stirrings of the wind. Brutus’s hair, wet in the sea and dried in the sun, has grown damp with sweat and dried yet again as the blue night falls and they continue their march toward Athens. The road glows in the twilight, and bats begin to flit back and forth. They pass no one on the road. Far off Brutus can see the lights of houses off in the hills, little farmlets and shepherd’s hovels. </p>
<p>“We won’t make it back unless we walk all night,” says Antony. “We ought to make camp now, while there’s still some light for it.” </p>
<p>Brutus wants nothing but his own bed, but he lacks the energy to argue or to keep walking. </p>
<p>They settle off the road beneath a stand of cypress, and Antony immediately sets about building a fire. Brutus does not know where one gains such practical knowledge: fire building, horse riding, fighting. Well--he knows, and like all patrician children he theoretically had the opportunity to learn these things at the hand of a helpful legionary, or a country uncle, or a slave. But when Brutus had expressed no interest his mother had not pressed, and so Brutus knows how to ride well enough to keep his seat and to fight well enough to die with honor, but nothing more. Antony, on the other hand, seems born to practicality. </p>
<p>“Fetch me some kindling,” he says to Brutus, and before long there is a merry cone of fire crackling in their little grotto beneath the trees. They have bread and cheese in their packs, stale and sweating, but Brutus is so tired and hungry they taste as ambrosia to him, and when they begin to pass a full wineskin back and forth Brutus is filled with such satisfaction he cannot help but laugh. </p>
<p>“What are you giggling about? This is hardly funny.” </p>
<p>“This isn’t what I’d be doing if I hadn’t met you, is all.” </p>
<p>Antony looks pleased with himself. “You’d be sitting in your room reading, I expect.”</p>
<p>Brutus coughs on a gulp of wine. “Writing poetry, probably. I do that, you know.” </p>
<p>Antony elbows him. They are sitting close beside one another, Antony having joined him when he finished with the fire. Brutus does not know what to make of it. </p>
<p>“I knew you were a romantic at heart,” says Antony. “Go on, recite some for me.” </p>
<p>“What? No.” </p>
<p>“Go on. You’d not have told me if you didn’t want me to ask you.” </p>
<p>“I don’t—know any. I burn it every morning, you see. I have ever since I started. It’s become a bit of a ritual sacrifice.” </p>
<p>“You think the gods want your poetry?” </p>
<p>“I don’t think they notice it. I doubt the thin smoke of a kitchen fire would cause the slightest sting to a god’s eye one way or another.” </p>
<p>“Perhaps each of Janus’s faces feels differently.” </p>
<p>“Hmm. Well, I have only ever known the one who hates it, I think.” </p>
<p>Antony laughs and passes back the wineskin. As they drink Brutus begins to ruminate on the events of the afternoon. His mind returns again and again to the story Antony told when they were floating together: the young boy diving into the river with scarcely enough time to worry about it. </p>
<p>“I wish we’d something to smoke,” says Antony. “I’m bored.” He leans back and peers up into the trees, where a snatch of starry sky glimmers through the boughs. “I wish you knew your poetry.” </p>
<p>“Let’s play a game,” says Brutus.</p>
<p>He has never suggested a game in his life, and he does not know where the impetus comes from now. Perhaps whichever capricious god has absorbed his poetry all these years has seen fit to bestow it upon him. </p>
<p>Antony raises an eyebrow. Brutus continues hurriedly, before he can lose his nerve.  “I ask you five questions, and you must answer honestly. No lies, no deflections.” </p>
<p>“Why would I do that?” </p>
<p>“Because you may also ask five questions of me.” He thrusts the wineskin at Antony. “Come on, drink up.” </p>
<p>“I think you’re the one who ought to drink,” Antony says. “Besides, you don’t simply get to ask away. We’ve got to flip a coin for who goes first.” </p>
<p>“What? No we don’t. I thought of the game, so I go first.” </p>
<p>“No,” says Antony. “Find a coin. We flip or nothing.” </p>
<p>Brutus grumbles, but he rummages through his pack and locates an as. “Will you take Janus or the ship?”</p>
<p>“You have Janus, seeing as we just invoked him,” Antony says, tone all generosity. “I’ll even let you flip it.” </p>
<p>Brutus flips the coin shakily in the firelight, but he manages to catch it, clutching it against the back of his hand. He curses when he moves his hand away to reveal the galley facing upwards. Antony hoots and claps, and Brutus is ready to call the whole thing off. </p>
<p>“Oh no, Brutus,” Antony crows. “You’ll have your questions, just as soon as I have mine.” </p>
<p>They settle before the fire again with ceremony. Antony seems to make a great show of thinking, before giving Brutus a long, contemplative look and asking his first question. “Where were you born?” </p>
<p>“That is what you’re asking?” </p>
<p> Antony gestures at him to answer. </p>
<p>Brutus sighs. He will not allow himself to relax; he is certain Antony has only asked such a straightforward question to lead him astray. </p>
<p>“Rome, of course.” </p>
<p>“Oh, of course. There can be no other point of origin.” </p>
<p>“Don’t make fun of me. Ask me again and get it over with.” </p>
<p>Antony frowns in exaggerated concentration, cups his chin in his hand. He considers Brutus with wide brown eyes that glimmer in the firelight. Brutus feels as naked as he was on the beach, and at once is struck with the desire to know just how the mind behind those eyes interprets him. </p>
<p>“Have you ever had coitus?” </p>
<p>Brutus splutters, a mouthful of wine burning along his windpipe. “That’s inappropriate.” </p>
<p>Antony rolls his eyes. “I see right through you, you know. You wouldn’t have mentioned your poetry if you didn’t want me to ask about it, and you wouldn’t have proposed this game if you didn’t want to ask me something you otherwise found distasteful. I just happened to win the coin toss. So, quid pro quo.” </p>
<p>“You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.” </p>
<p>“Why, because I called your bluff?” </p>
<p>“No, because—the whole of you! You appear in Athens with no name and no history, you come and go through windows like a monkey, you divert me, you seem to seek out trouble for your own amusement. I don’t know how I got mixed up with you.” </p>
<p>Brutus’s face flames. The wine, he thinks; were it not for the wine he would have managed to hold his tongue. He rambles when he drinks. It’s a terrible habit. But Antony appears nonplussed by the outburst, leaning back on his elbows and regarding Brutus with a level gaze. </p>
<p>“Maybe you were bored.” </p>
<p>“I’m a boring person,” Brutus says. </p>
<p>“Answer the question.” </p>
<p>“Yes!” </p>
<p>“Yes what?” </p>
<p>Brutus throws a clod of dirt onto the fire, with faint designs on tumbling the pyramid of kindling Antony has made at the center of it. “Yes, I have had coitus.” </p>
<p>“Sounds like it was thrilling.” </p>
<p>“It was fine.” </p>
<p>“Fine! Your face,” Antony says, laughing. “Gods. Did you even finish?” </p>
<p>“Is that one of your questions?” </p>
<p>“Fuck it. Yes.” </p>
<p>“I finished,” Brutus says. “And so did she. Quite enthusiastically, as a matter of fact. She made all sorts of—noises.” He jabs at Antony’s shoulder for emphasis. </p>
<p>Antony gives him a pitying look and pats him on the shoulder. That heavy warm hand again.</p>
<p>Brutus shivers, feeling a ghost of shame, still keen even several years on. She’d been a beautiful girl. Nothing less to make a man of him. She was brought to him oiled and perfumed, told him a good Roman name that sounded coarse in her accent, as though she’d learned it syllable by syllable. He can’t even remember it now. They must have told her the wrong name for him, or else she hadn’t understood; she had called him by his praenomen, and he’d been struck too dumb to correct her. </p>
<p>“I’m sure she did,” Antony continues. “I’m certain you were wonderful. I did see your cock earlier, Brutus. Nothing to be ashamed of there, though I always say it’s not the size of the sword but the skill of the swordsman—” </p>
<p>Brutus lunges for him, half falling onto Antony’s lap with fists and grasping hands. He doesn’t know what he means to do, only that the paroxysm of his embarrassment has grown too much to bear and must escape him somehow. Antony meets him as though expecting the assault, grips him by the wrists and hauls Brutus atop him, his whole body shaking with laughter. His skin radiates heat, as though he carries all the sun they lay beneath this afternoon. His toga has ridden midway up his thighs, and their legs slide together as they did in the water, Brutus’s braced over Antony’s. </p>
<p>Brutus allows himself to be halted. Antony licks his lips. </p>
<p>“You’ve got two more,” Brutus says.  </p>
<p>Antony blinks. Brutus can see the firelight quiver in his eyes. “Huh?” </p>
<p>“Questions.” </p>
<p>“Oh. Yes. Well. She, you said. That gives me the next one. Have you ever—with a man?” </p>
<p>Brutus swallows. He can feel every inch of his body where it touches Antony’s. Antony, who is holding Brutus tightly around the waist so he does not slip from his grasp, whose thumbs are moving in circles against Brutus’s torso. His hair has dried in a wild tangle. Brutus wonders how it would feel beneath his fingers, if it would be crisp with salt. </p>
<p>“No,” Brutus says. </p>
<p>Antony’s last question is not asked for. Indeed, it is hardly phrased as a question at all, rather an acknowledgement of something that is already destined to happen. Brutus is so close to him already, after all. The act, when it comes, will be only the work of the barest movement. </p>
<p>Antony tilts his face up. Brutus reaches out with cautious fingers to brush the curls away from his forehead. </p>
<p> “Can I kiss you?” Antony asks. </p>
<p>Brutus cannot speak. Instead he leans his own head down and brushes his lips over Antony’s. </p>
<p>At the touch of Brutus’s mouth Antony laughs again, not the gale of a moment ago but a soft huff, as of surprise or relief. From the outset it seems he will not let their kiss be chaste; his tongue darts out and he licks Brutus’s lips, shocks him into opening them, into letting him inside. Nothing feels more natural to Brutus. In this moment he wants nothing more. The force of his desire is frightening. </p>
<p>Antony slides a hand up Brutus’s spine to cup the back of his skull. Brutus grips Antony’s head in both his hands, fingers buried in his hair, which feels both exactly as he imagined it and yet softer too. They hold one another thus, as though each is afraid of retreat. There is something yielding about Antony Brutus would not have expected; he presses his tongue into Brutus’s mouth only to coax Brutus’s own tongue into his, his lips slack and willing. </p>
<p>A fine sweat breaks out over both their skins, and Antony fists the skirt of Brutus’s toga to draw it up over his knees. Brutus sighs at the cool touch of the air and the feeling of Antony’s flesh against his, the drag of his hair and the suggestion of his muscled thighs. He knows Antony must have been with other men. He accepts it just as readily as his understanding of his own proclivities. Brutus has always considered himself practical above all else, and practically there is a script for how this should go—only he has forgotten it, lost it all in the heat of Antony’s mouth. </p>
<p>Antony leans back, bearing Brutus down atop him on the ground. He sprawls against the loam and leaf litter and tosses his head back. The line of his neck beckons; there is a bulging muscle there Brutus wishes to lick, to bite; he kisses it instead, this small act as bold as he can manage, but Antony groans as though it is the most pleasurable thing in the world and arches his hips up against Brutus, making a show of his desire. Brutus’s heart pounds to feel his cock so close beneath the thin linen, so insistent, as though Antony has tapped into some ever-present aqueduct of want. At the press of it against his stomach Brutus squirms and sits up, and Antony leans back on his hands, knees spread wide apart. As Brutus watches he draws his toga up nearly around his waist. </p>
<p>“Where are you going?” he asks. </p>
<p>“I—” </p>
<p>“Brutus, don’t think so much.” </p>
<p>And oh, thinks Brutus, is this not the fundamental problem? In the firelight the dips and clefts of Antony’s body are all shadow, and from the dark look on Antony’s face Brutus understands he is meant to go there. Brutus shouldn’t be surprised that Antony would offer himself in this way; to assume the reverse might cause offense. But there is a certain languid calm to the way Antony conducts this business. If Brutus has forgotten the script, Antony will write a new one for them. It should be reassuring, but Brutus only feels ill at ease. </p>
<p>“Come,” says Antony again, and Brutus goes to him on hands and knees. He settles to one side this time, curled behind Antony, so his erection is not quite so present. But this is no real solution, for Antony has ready access to Brutus’s own cock now, and wastes no time in beginning to move against it, grasping at Brutus’s hip, guiding him against his body. </p>
<p>“What do you like?” he asks, and he might as well be asking Brutus what he’d like to read, had he every book in the world to hand. </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” says Brutus. </p>
<p>He cannot follow the pitch and roll of Antony’s hips. He is too unpracticed; his cock is a child’s wooden sword, dumb and blunt, capable only of weak parries and harassments. Antony seems to understand; he fumbles for Brutus’s cock himself, and begins to drag it up and down the cleft of his arse and between his thighs, which are slick with sweat. The pleasure is diffuse and embarrassing to Brutus, Antony’s body so present before him. </p>
<p>He had lain on top of the girl, he remembers. He hadn’t wanted the oil she wore to get all over him; up close he hadn’t liked the scent of it, so he kept the bedsheet between them, and moved it aside just enough to penetrate her. She too had taken hold of him then, and moved him inside her as though fitting a key to a lock. </p>
<p>At once Antony leaves off, trapping Brutus’s cock gently between his thighs. He takes hold of Brutus’s hand and lifts it to his mouth, kisses the palm, suckles at his fingers. Brutus gasps and tries to pull his hand back, but Antony grips his wrist and holds fast. Brutus shuts his eyes. He feels as though Antony is sucking the very marrow from his bones, as though in doing so he will gain some intimate knowledge of Brutus. </p>
<p>When he relinquishes Brutus’s hand his fingers are slick and cool in the night air. “Touch me,” Antony says, and curls a knee into his chest. </p>
<p>“Touch you,” says Brutus, with the same flatness of tone he uses in lectures, when he is puzzling over some question posed to him. He is stalling for time. </p>
<p>“Yes, just—” Antony grabs for Brutus’s wrist again. “I did that for a reason, you know.” </p>
<p>“You want me to—” </p>
<p>“Here.” </p>
<p>Antony does not sound annoyed, exactly, but his jovial mood has a harder edge now. He spits in his own hand and reaches back. Brutus cannot see him clearly but he can see the muscles of Antony’s forearm moving in the firelight, can see his eyes fall shut. Brutus has not considered the mechanics of this act much beyond graffiti and the rude gestures of schoolboys; he had assumed discomfort, likely some measure of humiliation, but instead Antony wears an expression of blissful torment. He appears careless of the fervor with which he drives into his own body, the small noises that escape him, and it is this obvious pleasure that troubles Brutus when he considers the intended goal. </p>
<p>Antony withdraws his fingers with a sigh. “All right,” he says. “There you are. Give it a little more spit and we’ll be in business.” He fists his cock almost as an afterthought.</p>
<p>Brutus sits back on his heels, feeling unable to move. His extremities have numbed, and his own cock has softened. Dimly, he registers that Antony is asking him a question. </p>
<p>“Hmm?”</p>
<p>“I said, d’you want it like this?” </p>
<p>Brutus wipes his clammy fingers off on his toga. “Actually,” he says, “I—I’m tired.” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“I don’t feel well. I think I’ve had too much sun.” </p>
<p>“Oh, come on,” Antony says. “You can’t be serious.” He rolls over on his back in a sprawl and throws his head back. He swallows, and Brutus watches his throat bob. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Brutus says. “I’m not saying no. Just—later. In a real bed, maybe.” </p>
<p>Antony snorts. He yanks down his toga and rolls back onto his side, pillowing a hand beneath his cheek. “As you like.” </p>
<p>Brutus straightens his own toga. “I’d have hurt you, wouldn’t I? Just—” He mimes spitting on his hand. </p>
<p>“I’ve had worse,” says Antony. “Throw me my cloak, will you?” </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” </p>
<p>“Going to sleep.” </p>
<p>“We don’t have to—” </p>
<p>“No, no. You’re right. It’s been a long day.” </p>
<p>Brutus bites his lip. “Come closer to the fire, anyway. You’ll catch a chill.” </p>
<p>“It’s hotter than Vulcan’s arsehole out here,” grumbles Antony, but he gets to his feet anyway and comes over to lie beside Brutus, facing away from him. </p>
<p>They lie there for some time, not speaking. After a few moments of quietude Antony begins to shift restlessly, kicking and scraping at the earth like a fractious horse. At last he groans and sits up on an elbow. “Look,” he says to Brutus. “I can’t sleep like this. You don’t mind if I—” He gestures at himself. </p>
<p>“Oh. No.”</p>
<p>Antony heaves a heavy sigh. “Thank you.” </p>
<p>“Not a problem.” </p>
<p>“I’ll be quiet.” </p>
<p>“I won’t listen.”</p>
<p>Antony lies back down on his side and Brutus does the same, face at Antony’s back, an arm span between them. Antony is quiet, and Brutus does not intend to listen. He might think Antony has simply given up and gone to sleep, but for a nearly imperceptible rustle of fabric and the barest hitch of Antony’s breathing. Brutus screws his eyes shut tighter, tighter still, and tries to will himself into unconsciousness, to will away the heaviness that settles between his legs. He will not touch himself. He will not even move. He will lie here and he will fall asleep, and in the morning he will return to Athens and to some semblance of normalcy. With luck, Antony will go on his way and Brutus will put this whole ill-conceived incident out of his mind altogether. </p>
<p>Beside him, Antony whines. </p>
<p>The sound is high and unexpected, almost plaintive, like the cry of a beast for its mother. It is this quality more than any prurient aspect that strikes at Brutus, that nearly makes him sit up, reveal himself, say something. He holds fast instead, his sole concession to open his eyes and watch as Antony’s shoulders tense and shake like a banner in the wind. Brutus shuts his eyes again. The cry, the quiver of that shoulder—there is something here Brutus feels he ought not to witness. But he listens. He cannot help himself. </p>
<p>Antony makes one further sound: a tiny sob. Brutus would have missed it had he been breathing at the time. After this, no more, and when Brutus dares to peek at him again he has gone quite still and boneless, like a sack of grain. Antony does not stir again, but the fire has died to embers before Brutus is asleep.</p>
<hr/>
<p>They arrive back in the city late in the afternoon the following day. The walk is interminable, pregnant silence hanging over them like the fug from an open sewer. Brutus feels his thoughts as though they are a third person walking beside him. He does not speak to Antony unless it’s to grunt in reply when Antony asks him to pass the wineskin, which they have filled with water from a roadside well. For his part, Antony seems none the worse for wear. He looks just the same as he had yesterday, walks with the same loose grace. Brutus can no more imagine the events of last night than he could imagine flying the rest of the way to Athens, and yet he knows for a fact they happened. But Antony does not speak of them, so Brutus won’t either. </p>
<p>“I’m hungry,” says Antony, as they begin to traverse the outskirts of the city. “Are you hungry?” </p>
<p>Brutus’s belly feels as though it is resting against his spine, but he merely shrugs at Antony. He allows himself to be led into a market set up along a short street running into a ruined temple. Antony vanishes immediately, weaving into the maze of stalls in search of food. Brutus finds himself drawn to the temple, and he ignores his own hunger in favor of following the lime-white street down to its end, where the temple sits behind a gnarled and ancient tree that looks as though it has curled upwards from this spot since the beginning of time. </p>
<p>Brutus had so looked forward to coming to Greece. He had allowed himself to cultivate excitement in a way he had not since he was a boy, when he had lain awake unable to sleep in advance of a triumph or a festival day. Now that he is here he finds it not precisely wanting, but also not quite what he had imagined. Indeed he has learned, has passed long hours in discussion on the stoa, but mostly he has gone about with other Romans, gone home to familiar faces. He has remained unstretched, as a rope with plenty of slack left in it. </p>
<p>The temple must be very old indeed, one of the city shrines built up around a bubbling spring. The air inside is dank and cool, and Brutus can see bundled votaries left by people from the neighborhood who worship here, who leave tokens for their small gods. The figure at the center of the cella is stooped and dark with clinging water. Brutus feels divinity in the air here now. He does not know the god to whom the temple is devoted; the idol is unfamiliar to him, so he does not know who to pray to, or what sort of offering to make. He shuts his eyes and finds his mind a perfect blank. </p>
<p>“There you are. I thought you’d abandoned me.” </p>
<p>Brutus turns. Antony leans in the narrow doorway. His arms are laden; Brutus can see another wineskin, a cheese rolled in cloth, a loaf of bread, a basket of figs. Balanced precariously atop the mound is a crock of honey. </p>
<p>“Have you bought out the place?” </p>
<p>“We’ve had nothing to eat all day. And don’t act as though you’re not hungry. I heard your belly growling like a wildcat.” </p>
<p>“Give me something,” Brutus says. “Some of those figs.” He reaches for them; Antony tries to duck away but is unsuccessful, yelping as Brutus takes a handful of figs, fat and purple, yielding but not overripe.</p>
<p>“Hey, those are for me.”  </p>
<p>“Quiet,” says Brutus. “We can’t just—come in here with all of this and not make an offering.” </p>
<p>He approaches the statue and bends down to set the figs at the goddess’s feet. </p>
<p>“Are you going to ask her for something?” </p>
<p>“I don’t even know who she is.” </p>
<p>“Hestia, I think. Uh, Vesta. Look at the fire.” </p>
<p>Beside the votaries sits a small firepot Brutus had not noticed before, reduced to a smolder in the shadow of the statue. Vesta’s hearth fire. Whoever maintains this shrine is tasked with keeping it lit. Brutus goes to it. He removes the knife from the folds of his cloak and pokes it into the pot to stoke the embers, locates a couple of twigs lying about to use for kindling. </p>
<p>“There,” he says, when the flame is healthier. </p>
<p>“You’ve her favor now. Hearth fires always burning. You’ll have a big family. A whole horde of Junii.” </p>
<p>Brutus makes a face. “I’d rather peace and quiet.” The thought is so arresting to him he has a mind to take the offering back. He has so much to do, it seems, before even considering the notion of a family. </p>
<p>“Come on,” says Antony. “I’m starving.” </p>
<p>They retreat to sit in the shade a few steps from the temple’s entrance. Antony fashions a plate from the cloth that covered the cheese, and Brutus offers his knife, wiped mostly clean on his toga. Antony eats like a horse, breaking off what seems to be half the loaf of bread, pressing a hunk of cheese into the rind of its crust and drizzling honey atop the whole of it before shoveling it into his mouth and chasing it with a fig. </p>
<p>Brutus shakes his head to watch him. “You’re a barbarian.” </p>
<p>Antony snorts. “I’m young yet. I’m still growing.” </p>
<p>“How old are you, anyway?” </p>
<p>Antony swallows and straightens. “Seventeen,” he says. </p>
<p>“You don’t look it.” </p>
<p>“I have an old soul.” </p>
<p>“You most certainly do not.” </p>
<p>Antony smacks Brutus on the knee. “You’re right. That’s you, huh? You were born old.” </p>
<p>“I didn’t have a choice,” says Brutus. </p>
<p>He means only that he was the first born son of a notable family, but the words seem to twist on their way out of his mouth so it sounds as though he is complaining. Antony rolls his eyes, but Brutus does not bother to argue. He is too tired to explain how it felt as a boy to live alone with his mother in the years after his father’s death, to hear her wailing echoing along the porches and corridors of the house. He would awaken in the night and creep to the door of her bedroom. He would stand there for a while and watch her until she noticed him, and those moments he recalls even now as the loneliest of his life. </p>
<p>When she saw him at last she would always do the same thing, which was to pretend she had not been crying. <i>Oh, Marcus</i> she would say, wiping her eyes. <i>Why are you awake so late? Come, let me take you back to bed.</i> She would come to him in the doorway and gather him against her. Already he thought himself too old for such things but in the late night shadows he could see the lurking shapes of his old fears, and he would press his face into her side and breathe her in, the deep sweet mother-smell that could still soothe something restless inside of him. </p>
<p>When they are stuffed past contentment they rise and begin to make their way home. After some discussion they decide to go to the stables themselves instead of sending Tyro; perhaps, suggests Antony, they might bring up the spooky mare and how she nearly unseated Brutus, and thus talk the stable master into some sort of discount. Brutus is unconvinced, but there is something about Antony’s confidence that compels him, the cant of his head as he looks up at the searing sky.  </p>
<p>He cannot believe that Antony is only seventeen. </p>
<p>The stables are close to Brutus’s house and redolent of hay and manure. The stable master is in the yard when they arrive; he knows immediately that something has gone amiss, both from their rough appearance and from the marked absence of the horses. A hulking stablehand busies himself in the corner, flaking a bale, and as they plead their case Brutus notes the way he watches them, eyes darting up to Antony and then back to the hay. </p>
<p>“So you see,” says Brutus, feeling Antony’s eyes at his back. “She was rather a spurious mount. My friend here is a very competent horseman and even he could not altogether manage her.” </p>
<p>Antony coughs. </p>
<p>The stable master picks at the rime of dirt beneath his nails. “Is that so.” </p>
<p>“It is.” </p>
<p>“I’ve always found her very docile under saddle.” </p>
<p>“Perhaps she was in oestrus,” says Antony. </p>
<p>The stable master scoffs. “Not possible.” </p>
<p>“At any rate, she was flighty,” Brutus says. “I don’t think any of us can say for certain she didn’t startle and take the gelding with her. In that case we surely can’t be held entirely responsible for the loss.” </p>
<p>Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus sees the stablehand set down his pitchfork. He straightens and leans against the wall, devoting all his attention to the goings on in the yard. Antony has noticed him too, and Brutus sees the way his entire bearing seems to change, like a dog whose hackles have gone up. Presently the stablehand grunts, and hocks a wad of spit onto the ground. As though this is some signal the stable master excuses himself and goes over to him, leans in and listens as the man mumbles something in his ear. Brutus looks over at Antony, but he is preoccupied with the dirt and sawdust at his feet and will not meet Brutus’s eyes. </p>
<p>The two men walk a little ways off, partially obscured behind an outbuilding. The stable master means to leave them long in the heat, an unsubtle tactic but no less wearing for being so. Brutus’s head feels as though it might float clean off his shoulders, and he is glad of having eaten, for if he had not he fears he might fall into a swoon. The yard is abuzz with flies, which alight on Brutus’s arms with impunity and when swatted manage only a lazy circle before landing ticklishly again. The sweet stench of manure rises up around them. To the flies, they must be indistinguishable from it. A professional would have offered them a seat, perhaps brought them somewhere cooler, but this man is not that. </p>
<p>“Forget it. Name your price,” calls Brutus at last. Clearly Antony’s plan was not meant to succeed, and he would rather pay a premium than stand here in the sun one moment longer. “We shall pay you for the horses and be on our way.” </p>
<p>The stable master appears from around the corner, his employee in tow, arms crossed over his great chest. “We know you,” he says. </p>
<p>“Of course you do,” says Brutus. “You hired us the horses.” </p>
<p>“Not you,” he says to Brutus. “Him.” He jerks his chin at Antony, who at last looks up from the dirt. His reticence is odd to Brutus. After his aside about the mare he hasn’t spoken again, though he still has the bearing of a spoiling dog. </p>
<p>“As I said.” </p>
<p>“I’m not talking about the horses,” says the man, as though Brutus is very stupid. </p>
<p>“Perhaps you’ve seen me around town,” says Antony. </p>
<p>“Seen you around. Heard about you. Little Roman shit who swindles at dice and legs it with a fellow’s purse.” </p>
<p>“Ah,” says Antony. “Actually, I think you have me mixed up with someone else. A different little Roman shit. There are enough of us about.” </p>
<p>The stablehand spits again. He really is quite strapping. Brutus is struck by a sudden series of images: the roar of angry men in a tavern, Antony picking himself up in the street, Antony stealing, bruised and bloodied, through Brutus’s window. His readiness to open his purse at the market, his sudden disappearance and his guardedness in public. </p>
<p>“Listen,” Brutus says. “Whether or not you know my friend here, surely the two of us can settle this, one man to another. As I said before, name your price, I shall pay it, and this business will be concluded.” </p>
<p>“You’ve an expensive friendship,” says the stable master. “This man here is in my employ, but he is married to my daughter, and as such he is as family to me. When your friend cheats him he also cheats me. So I’ll have five mina for the horses, and another four to cover the contents of Androkles’ last purse.” </p>
<p>Beside him Antony sputters. “That’s preposterous!”  </p>
<p>“What is preposterous is the fact I’m allowing you to leave my yard.” He looks at Brutus. “But you have some luck yet, if this man here has not yet seen the truth of you. I choose to assume that rather than the alternative, which is that he is as low as you are.” </p>
<p>“Assume nothing about me,” Brutus says, tone as chilly as he can muster.</p>
<p>He does not look at Antony. Instead he rummages in his pack and withdraws his purse. He makes a show of picking through it, which doesn’t change the fact that no matter how many times he counts it does not contain enough to pay the stable master. He continues to sort through the coin anyway, feeling the weight of three men’s gazes like birds alighting on his shoulders. At last he can delay no longer, and tosses the purse to the stable master, who catches it deftly and looks at it as though it is a puck of manure from one of his horses. </p>
<p>“I shall have to send my slave with the balance,” Brutus says. “We’ll be off, and I will go to him directly.” </p>
<p>“Fine,” says the stable master. “Though I’m sure you’ll understand your friend must stay here with us. Collateral, so to speak.” </p>
<p>Beside him, Antony sputters. Brutus holds out his hand. “He will not. It is as I said. We will both go now, and then I will send my slave back with the money directly.” </p>
<p>The stable master crosses his arms over his chest. “One of you must stay. When you’re gone I’ll be out the horses and the coin.” </p>
<p>Brutus has lost his patience. He is tired of loitering here in the heat, and a strange irritation prickles him, bound up inextricably with Antony. He wishes he could turn his back and leave all of this behind, yet it is unthinkable to Brutus to leave Antony here. </p>
<p>“Listen, you fool,” he snaps. “I am telling you we are leaving. ” </p>
<p>“And I am telling you that is unacceptable.”  </p>
<p>Out of the corner of his eye, Brutus sees the stablehand move a hand to the scabbard around his waist. The decision is the work of a moment.  Whatever vendetta these men have against Antony, they have no express reason to take it out on Brutus. “I’ll stay, then,” he says.</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Antony. </p>
<p>“Be silent,” Brutus says, turning to him, stepping closer. “Go back to the house. Give Tyro this, and say I asked you to show it to him.” He removes the heavy gold ring he wears on the finger of his right hand. “He knows I would not take it off unless I had to. Tell him to prepare a purse.”  </p>
<p>Antony frowns. “What if he won’t come?” </p>
<p>“Tell him I will be very displeased if he does not come. If that doesn’t work, you may threaten him.” He claps Antony on the shoulder. “All will be well,” he says. “Now go, and hurry back.” </p>
<p>As Brutus watches Antony weighs the ring in his palm and slides it onto his own finger. “Are you sure about this?” </p>
<p>By way of answer Brutus turns back to his erstwhile captors. “He’ll go now, if that suits you.” </p>
<p>The stable master shrugs. </p>
<p>“Go,” Brutus says to Antony. With a final glower Antony turns and strides out of the yard, heading in the direction of Brutus’s house, and leaving Brutus alone with the two men.</p>
<p> “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a cup of wine,” Brutus says. </p>
<p>“This is a stable yard, not a taverna. If you’re thirsty there’s a bucket over there.” He points to a long trough sitting against the wall of the yard, the surface of which is covered by a thick, verdant skin of algae. </p>
<p>Brutus would sooner die than give these men the satisfaction of seeing him dredge up their scummy water. Instead he gives a general wave of thanks, and lacking anywhere else to sit he scrapes out a dusty circle on the ground and lowers himself down cross legged. </p>
<p>“If you’re bored we can give you some work to do,” says the stablemaster conversationally. “But I don’t think you’d be much for it. Little Roman shits, like I said. Eh, Androkles?” </p>
<p>He draws out a long leather horsewhip and begins to slash it though the air. Brutus conjures all the patrician indifference he can muster to keep his face expressionless. The stable master chuckles and makes a show of sitting on a stool and laying the whip in his lap. </p>
<p>“It’s funny you expect your boy there to come back,” he says. He is plaiting the tail of the whip. “Give him a ring worth more than his sorry life and expect him not to run off to the nearest broker? You’re either painfully naive or you’ve got him under some kind of sway.” </p>
<p>“Mind who you’re talking to,” Brutus snaps. </p>
<p>“You are far from home, <i>dominus</i>. Might be further yet, if he doesn’t come back to rescue you.” </p>
<p>Brutus chews at the inside of his cheek and watches the dirt in front of him, where a beetle is trundling toward a scrap of dung. More than the man’s threats or disrespect Brutus hates that he has named this particular fear: that Antony cannot be trusted, that Brutus has been a fool to cast his lot in with him. A man from no family. It would serve him right, he thinks, if Antony did not return, if he sold Brutus’s father’s ring and pissed the coin away in the streets of Athens and left Brutus here to rot. </p>
<p>He sits and bakes in the afternoon sun. He begins to daydream of great amphorae brimming with honeyed water, of the juices of pressed fruits, of dunking his head in the water trough. A horse is tied in one corner of the yard in the only scrap of shade; it stares balefully at Brutus, and seems skeptical that anyone will return for him. He considers the wall of the stable yard. He doubts he would be able to scale it undetected. He wonders how severely he would be beaten once they dragged him back. Would it be worth what followed, worth the repercussions of assaulting a noble? These men seem hot blooded, and unlikely to think things through. </p>
<p><i>Like Antony</i>, his brain offers. Brutus laughs. The stable master looks up at him, frowning. Brutus can feel his brain growing softer, his thoughts warping and twisting in the heat. Perhaps he will expire of thirst, or perhaps he will lose his mind entirely and make a run for the wall after all. </p>
<p>A breeze ekes across the yard, teasing the sweat on Brutus’s brow. He is so hot he feels paradoxically chilled, and the breeze raises gooseflesh on his arms. He licks his parched lips, the moisture gone almost as soon as it touches them. All is white sun and a searing, impossible blue. Had they gone to a temple earlier? Had he stood somewhere musty-cool and looked upon a flame? He cannot recall it.  </p>
<p>Presently he begins to hear a distant burble of talk that seems somehow familiar, that stirs and pokes at his mind. As it draws closer the horse perks up its ears. Brutus thinks of Xanthos and Thisbe, wherever they may be. He hopes they are under a less impervious sky, cropping at sweet grass.</p>
<p>Two figures come into the yard, both appearing agitated. Brutus thinks at first he must be dreaming, but when he hears their words he feels a spark of hope he will not expire in this godforsaken place. More than that: perhaps, he thinks, his trust was not so poorly placed after all. <br/>“Thank you,” he mutters to whichever god is listening. </p>
<p>“I said it was just here,” Antony is saying. “Why you think I’d lie to you--” </p>
<p>“And I said, you are too clean to have cut my master’s hand off for his ring, which is the only reason I did not set the guards on you immediately.” </p>
<p>“You give me too much credit, Tyro. I might’ve changed my toga.” </p>
<p>Brutus looks up to see Tyro favoring Antony with the look he wears when he’s considering a statement he knows full well might see him beaten. But Antony is no longer paying Tyro any attention. Instead he is looking straight at Brutus, with a look of such clear relief Brutus finds he cannot hold his gaze. </p>
<p>Brutus climbs to his feet unsteadily, his legs pins and needles after so long sitting on the ground. He starts towards Antony and Tyro and is within an arm’s length when catches the sole of his sandal on a rock. He trips. His gait is too shaky to right himself in time, and he falls forward. He is aware of Tyro diving for him, but he is not quick enough, and Brutus finds himself in Antony’s arms for the second time in less than a day.  He smells of ladies’ perfume. His body is warm, his skin slick with sweat where it touches Brutus’s. </p>
<p>“I do not think your slave trusts me,” Antony says. </p>
<p>Brutus wriggles free of Antony’s grasp. “As well he shouldn’t. Have you brought the purse? I’d like to get out of here.” </p>
<p>Antony gives him an odd look before nodding at Tyro, who indeed produces a purse, glowering at Brutus all the while. </p>
<p>“What would my mistress say if she knew you were allowing yourself to be extorted?” Tyro says this as though they will not both come when Servilia calls. </p>
<p>“She will not know, because if we know what is good for us neither of us will tell her.” Brutus would not usually speak so to a slave, especially not in front of Antony, but he is too fatigued to stay his tongue.</p>
<p>Antony takes the purse from Tyro and fairly throws it at the stable master. “It’s all there,” he says. “I suppose you’ll want to count it. If you know your numbers, anyway.”</p>
<p>“Antony,” Brutus snaps. </p>
<p>The men look as though they would like nothing more than to abandon the money entirely and take their payment by way of corporal punishment, but they eventually stand down, the master counting out the exorbitant sum which Antony has somehow cost Brutus. </p>
<p>Tyro is right; if his mother discovers this she might be angry enough to call Brutus back from Athens entirely. She has ever been mercurial; when he was young she treated him as a man, and now he is a man he seems to frustrate her with his impulses towards independence. He would be lying if he said the paradox had not made him eager for Greece. </p>
<p>“Are we settled?” Brutus asks. </p>
<p>The men grunt. “Get out,” the master says. </p>
<p>Antony tenses, and for a moment Brutus thinks he will fly at the men. But he wheels about instead, and strides from the yard, out of the gate and back onto the street, Brutus and Tyro left to trail out in his wake.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once home Antony wastes no time in telling Brutus he is a fool. He tells him multiple times, in fact, from the moment they step inside the house, where they are both somewhat reanimated by the relative cool. Brutus is taken aback; he hadn’t expected this degree of verve from Antony, who seems to possess a permanent lackadaisical undercurrent. </p>
<p>“What on earth were you thinking, making me leave you?” Antony spits, pacing before Brutus on the tile. “You have no idea what men like that are capable of.” </p>
<p>Brutus’s skin has begun to prickle beneath his toga. He contorts himself to reach an itch between his shoulder blades, and has to fight the urge to strip off here in the entryway. “I should think I know perfectly well by now. You took long enough returning for me.” </p>
<p>“It’s not my fault,” says Antony. “Tyro would not believe me. He seemed to think there was some elaborate conspiracy afoot. He couldn’t be convinced you would be so stupid as to leave yourself behind as collateral for a bunch of thugs.” He looks pointedly at the slave, who is watching the proceedings with his arms crossed over his chest and a baleful eye on both of them.</p>
<p>“There were only two of them. Anyway, it’s really very inconvenient. What are we going to do the next time we need to hire horses?” </p>
<p>“Don’t make light.”</p>
<p>“I’m merely stating facts. Tyro, I’ll bathe now. And have someone bring honey water. I am quite faint with thirst.” </p>
<p>Antony dogs his heels along the hallway back to his rooms, following Brutus into  the bath chamber and continuing to fret as Brutus undresses. He is too uncomfortable to wait for Tyro to attend him, and by the time he returns bearing a tray with a pitcher and two cups Brutus’s clothing is already piled on the floor.</p>
<p>The water is sweet, and Brutus guzzles half the pitcher himself before thinking of Antony. “I’m all right,” Antony says, sounding abashed. “Finish it.” </p>
<p>Antony does not cease pacing as Brutus stands still to be cleaned. The oil is silken against his heated skin, pink from two days of sun. He lets his eyes fall closed; he is tired, after all, filthy and footsore from traveling. Tyro begins his ministrations. Antony clears his throat. </p>
<p>“He can do you next,” says Brutus without looking. Beside him, Tyro gives a nearly imperceptible snort of disdain. </p>
<p>“Obliged,” Antony says, sounding amused at the offer. </p>
<p>“Did you truly cheat that man?” asks Brutus.</p>
<p>“He’s terrible at dice.” </p>
<p>“That is not an answer.” </p>
<p>Antony sighs. “I should take offense that you would even ask.” </p>
<p>Tyro’s hand skates across Brutus’s chest. Brutus opens his eyes. Antony is watching him with a contemplative expression. His eyes are not on Brutus’s face, but they find their way there eventually once Antony realizes Brutus is looking back. </p>
<p>“Yet you don’t seem offended,” says Brutus. “Perhaps it’s because you know you have no grounds.” </p>
<p>“What do you mean by that?” </p>
<p>“You did cheat him. You have been cheating your way across this whole city since you got here. That’s apparent to me now. The only question I have is why on earth you’d do it.” </p>
<p>Antony stands still for a moment. He lets his gaze fall away from Brutus entirely, seeming very absorbed by the mosaic pattern on the floor of the bathroom. Finally he shrugs. “Boredom, I suppose. And who doesn’t want a little extra pocket money?” </p>
<p>“The stable master was right, you know. I have scarcely known you a week and already you’ve cost me as twice as much as a halfway decent house slave.” </p>
<p>A dark look passes like a cloud over Antony’s face. If Brutus had not been watching him carefully he would have missed it, for it is gone nearly as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a cool smile. Antony looks very fine when he smiles at Brutus, yet somehow now the expression is not at all appealing. As he considers Antony Brutus realizes why: it is the sort of smile one meets on the business end of a sword. </p>
<p> “All that coin,” Antony says, “and you do not even get to keep me.” </p>
<p>A chill seems to fall over the room. Tyro, kneeling beside Brutus, chooses this particular moment to daub oil on Brutus’s cock. His touch shocks Brutus, and he jerks away from it, stumbling forward and sending Tyro into a sprawl that nearly ends in the bath. He arrests himself just at the edge. The pitcher of oil he held is flung onto its side, the handle breaking off and spinning across the tile. </p>
<p>Tyro scrambles to right himself and then the bottle. “My apologies, dominus,” he mutters. Brutus has always hated to hear slaves’ apologies. They are scuttling and frantic things.   </p>
<p>He waves Tyro off. “No matter. I am finished. Attend Antony if he wishes.”  He steps into the bath, wades out into the center and begins to splash himself with the tepid water.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Antony says. </p>
<p>“You are thoroughly soiled. You must bathe, and I won’t have you trailing dust and dirt in here. So you must be cleaned.” </p>
<p>Antony frowns. “Why don’t you just order me? You seem to think yourself entitled.” </p>
<p>“I am offering you my hospitality,” snaps Brutus. “You may accept or not. It is of no consequence to me, only it would seem you have nowhere else to go.” </p>
<p>“Juno’s fucking <i>cunt</i>, all <i>right</i>. Will it shut you up I shall gladly have your slave attend to me, Marcus Brutus, and I shall thank you profusely for the privilege.” He waves a hand theatrically. </p>
<p>As Brutus watches Antony undoes the clasp at his shoulder and casts it onto the floor amid the puddled fabric of his toga. Then he tugs his tunic off over his head and fumbles with his sandals while quite naked. Brutus might laugh, if he didn’t think that doing so would cause Antony to leap into the bath and drown him. When he is divested of his clothing, Antony stands beside Tyro, arms held stiffly at his sides. </p>
<p>Brutus will not admit this until much later, but looking upon Antony as he stands before the bath Brutus sees in him the regal bearing of a young king. He stands bristling, full of obvious ire at Brutus. The skin of his face and chest is flushed. Tyro’s hands flutter about him like birds before alighting upon him, spreading oil from the broken pitcher and skimming it briskly away with the strigil. </p>
<p>They do not speak. Brutus occupies himself with bathing, scrubbing his hair and dunking beneath the surface of the water. As on the beach it is difficult to avoid the fact of Antony’s body, how it differs from Brutus’s, which seems at times all points, which seems as though it might never fit comfortably against another’s. Antony’s cock hangs heavy between his legs and Brutus finds himself imagining how it might have felt to touch it, had he been brave enough to seize the opportunity. </p>
<p>When Tyro is finished with his scraping Brutus dismisses him. Antony looks as though he wants to leave also, but he joins Brutus in the bath instead, slipping beneath the surface and emerging against the tiled edge, where he groans and stretches, slicking the excess water from his hair. </p>
<p>“You feel better, don’t you?” asks Brutus. </p>
<p>“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Antony says by way of answer. “Besides, it’s hardly fair.” </p>
<p>“What isn’t?” </p>
<p>“To be flattered I should like what you have, when any poor man in want of comfort would feel the same as I do.” He frowns at the water. </p>
<p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” </p>
<p>Antony does not reply right away. Instead he shuts his eyes and slips under the water again. Brutus can see him squatting there just below the surface. The light in the room makes strange patterns on his skin through the greenish water, and he waves his arms slowly back and forth like drifting weeds. Then he surges back up for air and looks at Brutus. </p>
<p>“You shouldn’t have let me leave. I shouldn’t have let you let me.” </p>
<p>“They’d have hurt you. They were spoiling for it.” </p>
<p>“And you don’t think I can take care of myself?” </p>
<p>Brutus sputters. “Of course you can, but you didn’t have to. What I have, you said. What good is it if I can’t—wield it? That is what we ought to do, we who have.” </p>
<p>Antony gives a wry laugh. “For the good of the plebs, yes? You’re making it worse. You ought to quit while you’re ahead.” </p>
<p>They are opposite one another, Antony leaning back against the side of the bath, Brutus in the middle, paddling in the water. Brutus moves closer. He tells himself he is moving involuntarily, carried across on the whim of a current. Antony watches him come in silence. Ripples course between them over the surface of the bath, tiny waves that originate from Brutus and meet their terminus against Antony’s chest. Closer and closer Brutus moves, until there is nowhere for the water to go, no more space for it to peak or ebb. Antony leans back against the tile, letting Brutus come into the lee of his arms. <br/>To be so near to Antony feels like being out under the sun again, or perhaps it is only that they have so often been in the heat together that Brutus’s body has come to expect it. </p>
<p>“I meant no offense,” Brutus says. The words seem to float around him, plucked from the steam that rises from the water. “All of that, all of this.” Brutus gestures at the walls. “I am truly sorry. I meant only for you to be at ease. To be comfortable.” </p>
<p>As soon as he speaks the words he knows them to be true. Yet why are they true? Why should he feel so particular about the state of a man he scarcely knows? His heart thunders in his chest. He thinks Antony must be able to see it. </p>
<p>Beneath the water a hand alights on Brutus’s waist. Brutus tenses. The hand does not move.</p>
<p> “And are you comfortable?” Antony murmurs. </p>
<p>“No,” Brutus says, but he continues anyway. And then he is in Antony’s arms entirely, and Brutus is kissing him. </p>
<p>As before, Antony yields to Brutus immediately. Looming over him in the bath feels heady, the sensation enhanced by their physical disparity. Brutus cannot hope to match him physically and Antony could easily thwart him, but he gives no indication of trying. Rather he is the picture of supplication, head falling back and mouth open. Brutus has had no practice at kissing, but Antony seems pleased enough with his efforts. He moans into Brutus’s mouth and tightens his grip on his waist as they move together in the water. He nips at Brutus’s lips and chases him when he retreats, as though he cannot bear to be parted from him. </p>
<p>Brutus’s head is buzzing. He feels as though all the blood in his body has fled into his yearning skin, which wants only more touch, to press against Antony, to be caressed by him. Antony’s cock is hard against him and Brutus feels a surge of concern at the insistence of the organ, the way he had last night by the fire. Antony too wants to be touched, and so the question will be whether or not Brutus can manage it. Now, unlike last night, he vows to try. </p>
<p>They break the kiss with a gasp and a splash. Antony pulls Brutus closer to him and hooks his chin over Brutus’s shoulder. He seems for a moment to be far away. Then he pulls back to look Brutus in the face and grin, not the swordspoint smile but something warmer, shyer, though Brutus cannot imagine Antony could ever truly be shy. </p>
<p>“You said you wanted a bed,” Antony says.  </p>
<p>Brutus fears Tyro will be in the bedroom waiting to dress him, but he is nowhere to be found. When they enter he sees the bed sitting in the center of the room as it always has, but now it seems to present itself with great irony. Antony laughs and throws himself down upon it the way he had the first night he came through Brutus’s window. </p>
<p>He pats the mattress beside him. “Don’t look so petrified,” he says. “You’ll make me think you don’t like me after all.” </p>
<p>Brutus does like him. He is embarrassed by the magnitude. He feels it must radiate from him, surging out into all four corners of the room. How can Antony not feel it? How is it not mortifyingly obvious?</p>
<p>Brutus climbs onto the bed. On it he feels as small as a child, the bed a wide and unnavigable space, like a sea or a vast plain. Lying there in its centre, with his arms propped behind his head and his cock stiff, is Antony. He looks as though he has always been there and does not plan on leaving any time soon.  </p>
<p>Brutus approaches cautiously and curls beside him, setting one hand on Antony’s thigh. He can feel skin and coarse hair and muscle, exotic next to his own smooth body, scrubbed hairless by oil-soaked walnut shells. Antony always seems ready to spring. Brutus feels gawky and bashful by contrast, sure his inexperience is evident. </p>
<p>“I’m not petrified,” Brutus says. </p>
<p>“Aren’t you? You’re shaking.” </p>
<p>“I’m just cold,” says Brutus. </p>
<p>But of course the room is warm; he has just come out of the bath and he has begun to sweat again already. Antony opens his mouth as though he’s planning to refute the point, but mercifully he gives up on the idea, choosing instead to kiss Brutus lightly on the mouth. </p>
<p>He sits up slightly on the bed. He bends his knees and moves his thighs apart. His cock is flagrant, and Brutus cannot look away. </p>
<p>“Touch me,” Antony says. </p>
<p>Brutus searches his face and the tone of his voice for--something. Some tease, some test. But there is nothing there, only Antony watching him expectantly, only the rise and fall of his chest and the tight muscles of his belly. Brutus’s mind tries its best to flit between anxieties, but presented with the frank picture of Antony’s desire it can find nothing to alight on. There is nothing else for it but to comply, so Brutus reaches out and wraps his hand around the length of Antony’s cock. Antony responds immediately, with as much drama as one who has been stung, pricked by a honeyed barb of pleasure. He arches into Brutus’s touch and moans. The noise is outlandish in the quiet room, and Brutus cannot help but cast about for eavesdroppers. </p>
<p>“Let old Tyro listen,” Antony says, giggling. “He ought to be pleased.” </p>
<p>“He is liable to come in here with a knife again.”  </p>
<p>“Then I shall just have to assure him I’m the one who’s being skewered,” says Antony. “Perfectly above board in Greece.” </p>
<p>Brutus’s hand stutters on Antony’s cock. Antony tuts and wraps his hand over Brutus’s. Brutus has thus far been cautious in his touches, and Antony seems intent on demonstrating what more he can take. He guides Brutus roughly, moving their hands in jerky unison. </p>
<p>Brutus wonders if this is how Antony touched himself last night, lying beside the dwindling fire. When Brutus sees to his own pleasure he does so with economy, and then does not think of it again for days. Antony writhes as though compelled, as though he is a starved man who might win sustenance this way. Eventually he drops his own hand and allows Brutus to carry on alone. The head of his cock has grown wet with fluid Brutus can smear about with his thumb, and he is pleased by this small success. </p>
<p>Antony groans and moves his legs apart. He ushers Brutus closer, takes his hand and sucks on his fingers, eyes closed and mouth fervent. Brutus’s own cock is full between his legs; a look down at it shows he is leaking his own desire onto his thigh. On impulse he moves astride Antony and guides his cock to Antony’s in a lewd kiss. These softest parts of them, skin pink as Brutus’s sunburned shoulders. He is compelled by the look of them up close. He ducks down to lick the head of Antony’s cock and tastes a brine like the sea. </p>
<p>Antony gives a startled laugh that slides into a moan. “Go and fetch that oil from the bath,” he says. </p>
<p>“Huh?” </p>
<p>Antony wriggles out from under him. A quick kiss. “Go,” he says, and Brutus is barefoot on the cool tile, crock in hand, before his sluggish brain understands what he is doing. </p>
<p>Antony takes the oil from him and takes back Brutus’s hand. He pours oil lavishly on the fingers he wetted, careless of the linens, and then twines his own fingers with Brutus’s until they are anointed also. He moves with businesslike precision, though his breath comes in gusts and his color is high. There is an incongruity here Brutus cannot put words to, but he does not have time to try. Antony settles on the bed again and trails his oiled fingers between his legs as though tracing lines on a map. </p>
<p>“Here,” he says. “Give me your hand.” </p>
<p>“Can’t you--” </p>
<p>“I want you.” </p>
<p>“I’ll hurt you,” Brutus says.</p>
<p>“You won’t. Your lovely fingers, I can feel them already.” </p>
<p>Brutus stares dumbly at his hand, first and second fingers shining. His fingers seem markedly unlovely, knobby-knuckled and too long. The light in the room is the color of beeswax and the heat makes Brutus feel drunk. He should have had the presence of mind to call for wine, but he is beginning to realize he has none of that where Antony is concerned. </p>
<p>“Please,” says Antony. He does not admonish Brutus to stop thinking again; if he had Brutus is not sure he would have complied, for he would have seized upon the request as wholly impossible. But this plea, uttered so quietly--he cannot refuse it. After all, has he not only just been thinking of how he desires Antony’s comfort? </p>
<p>He rests his weight on an elbow. Their faces are close together; as much as Brutus wishes to hide he wants to be close to Antony while he does this, as though proximity might outbalance shame. Antony’s breath is hot on his cheek, so that when Brutus touches him he does not only hear the sounds Antony makes but feels them, too. </p>
<p>Antony must guide him in this too. When Brutus hesitates Antony kisses him and makes entreaties, and when Brutus slides a finger inside of him and Antony cries out and shudders he has to grasp Brutus by the wrist so that he cannot pull free. </p>
<p>“No, no, please,” he gasps. “Don’t stop.” </p>
<p>Antony is slick and tight and feels impenetrable, but once Brutus is reassured he is in no pain it is sweet to lie with him, one hand between his thighs, and feel the way he opens. Brutus finds there is power in this as there had not been with the girl. Then, he could feel the dearth of her attention like a hundred empty rooms, but Antony is present for every minute movement of Brutus’s fingers. When he asks for more he looks into Brutus’s face and Brutus feels he is being uncovered, tilled and sifted through.  </p>
<p>Kneeling between Antony’s legs, cock in hand, he freezes and cannot make the required motion. He tells himself it is fear of causing pain after all, but in truth it is the fear of debasement, for if he brings Antony low for his own satisfaction then what does this make him?</p>
<p>Antony peers at him over his knees. “What are you waiting for?” </p>
<p>“Nothing.” Brutus draws a breath. “You’re sure that--” </p>
<p>“Yes, yes.” </p>
<p>Brutus’s hands are shaking again, but Antony moans encouragingly when he butts his cock against his body, and again and again as Brutus presses inside, folding his legs around Brutus until his ankles are crossed against the small of his back and he has drawn Brutus into him entirely. Brutus cannot stay silent; he has no control over the sounds he makes, and is only dimly aware of the way Antony seems to gather them, kissing him everywhere, touching him softly and whispering in his ear, holding Brutus in his body like a scant cup of precious wine. </p>
<p>Blood flutters in Brutus’s veins. He cannot move; if he moves he will explode and all of this will be over. He cannot find the breath to tell Antony, but Antony seems to know it anyway. He hitches against Brutus, arms braced against his shoulders. Antony is drawn taut as a wire; his mouth hangs open and little grunts and exclamations issue from him at intervals as though shaken loose by the force of their coupling. He catches Brutus’s eye and manages a demon’s grin. He grabs Brutus’s hand and sets it on his belly, where the muscles bunch beneath his skin. </p>
<p>“Can you feel it?” Antony asks. “Can you feel your cock inside me?” </p>
<p>Brutus can’t, but there is something so incensing about the lie, the thought that Brutus inside him might change reconfigure Antony somehow.  “Yes, yes,” he cries, and Antony looks at him and fairly snarls, and it is this that spurs Brutus to grab Antony by the hips and pull him hard against his body, to arch over him and let his sweat drip onto that sun-browned belly. All thought is gone, replaced by the need to drive into Antony over and over, to chase the sparking pleasure that unspools in Brutus’s own gut. At the last minute, wild with his climax, he yanks himself free and comes over Antony’s stomach with an inchoate roar, lashes of semen mixed with sweat and Antony’s dark hair. Brutus wants to put his hands in it, he wants to rub it all into Antony’s skin. </p>
<p>Under him, Antony wails. “Don’t stop!” </p>
<p>Now Brutus needs no further counsel. He drives three fingers into Antony directly, moans at the heat and laxity of his hole, shining with oil and come and gaping like a rosy mouth. Brutus splays his other hand below Antony’s navel, in the thick of the mess he’s left. Antony cries out as though in pain and comes himself, head thrown back, over and over in long pulses as his whole body seems to balance on the tips of Brutus’s searching fingers. </p>
<p>Antony strains upward in an arc and freezes for a moment as a corpse in its rigors before collapsing back onto the bed with a great sigh, all air chased from his lungs. He lies there in a heap, seeming quite dead. </p>
<p>“Come here,” he says after a minute, without opening his eyes. </p>
<p>Brutus hesitates. Perhaps Antony senses Brutus’s squeamishness. “Come <i>here</i>,” he insists, and without waiting for an answer he takes Brutus by the arms and yanks him forward, back atop him into Brutus’s own cooling issue. His head rests on the pillow just above Antony’s right shoulder. </p>
<p>Brutus shifts, and there is an audible squelch. “Ugh,” he says without thinking, and Antony laughs, tightening his arms around Brutus’s body. Brutus tenses reflexively. He considers pulling away, but instead allows himself to be held against Antony, who smells pleasant despite his state of debauch.  </p>
<p>“No cuddling with your girl for afters, then?” Antony asks. </p>
<p>Brutus shudders. He had hated it, after. He’d shrunk from her and rolled away, and they’d lain together in silence. She’d been in his room, in his bed, and he’d had no idea how to get her to go. In the end he had gotten up himself, made some excuse and hidden in the bathroom until he heard the house slaves come to collect her. </p>
<p>“She wasn’t interested. Neither was I.”</p>
<p>Antony sighs. “That’s a pity. I love it. Falling asleep in your beloved’s arms. It’s the best bit.” </p>
<p>Brutus shifts back and looks at him, searching his face for a hint of irony, but he finds none. Antony has opened his eyes and is staring up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. </p>
<p>“You’ve had many beloveds?” Brutus asks. The thought plucks at him somehow. </p>
<p>“I can love anyone for a night. That’s the secret, you see.” </p>
<p>“The secret to what?” </p>
<p>But Antony does not say. He pulls Brutus to him again and buries his nose in his hair. Brutus can feel his breath there, a little bloom of heat like the temple flame he stoked all those hours ago. As he lies here with Antony the trials of the day catch up to him at last. His limbs grow heavy and his head lowers to rest on Antony’s chest. He can feel Antony’s cock soft and damp against the hollow of his hip. Their legs slide together, thigh to thigh, foot to foot. A distant pulse beats in Antony’s ankle. In a moment, Brutus thinks, he will rise and bathe again. In a moment he will put an end to this idyll, for he is not the sort of man to lie idle, even after lovemaking. He is not that sort of man at all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains some implied skeevy power dynamics between Antony and an older character.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brutus wakes the following morning sweaty as usual, and with a latent ache in his muscles. He is unused to physical labor of any kind, and the walk from the seaside has left him footsore, his calves tight. When he rolls over in bed he feels a twinge in his hips and buttocks, and his face grows hot as he remembers how he rolled his hips into Antony over and over. His first impulse is embarrassment; imagine being so unbridled before another man. He is staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing, when Antony stirs beside him, turning over in a drowse, groping blindly for Brutus and burrowing against him. </p><p>“I have to get up,” Brutus says. </p><p>Antony looks like a newborn kitten, eyes closed tight. “Mm. No you don’t.” </p><p>“I do.” </p><p>Antony kisses him on the shoulder. “Not yet,” he says. “It’s still early.” </p><p>Brutus does not know the hour. Perhaps it is early. Casting about, he sees the room has been undisturbed by the slaves; were it very late they might have roused him or brought a breakfast tray, but there is nothing here save a pitcher of water left sometime in the night. </p><p>“Are you well?” Brutus asks Antony. </p><p>“Can I walk, do you mean? I don’t know, we’ll have to see.” Antony grins wolfishly and stretches.</p><p>He drapes a leg over Brutus’s body. His cock twitches against Brutus’s thigh. He settles back against Brutus, forehead resting on his upper arm. Brutus turns his head and meets Antony’s dark, soft curls. He kisses Antony’s forehead. He feels a thrill at this; he is unused to this sort of closeness.</p><p>“What shall we do today?” says Antony. “No more riding, I don’t think.” He shifts on the bed and grimaces.</p><p>“You may do as you like. I have lectures to attend.” </p><p>“You’d leave me here alone?” </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>Antony props himself up on his elbow. His eyes glitter dangerously, though he wears a slight smile on his lips and strokes Brutus’s forearm with a fingertip. “Perhaps you do not trust me,” he says. </p><p>Brutus thinks of their argument in the bath. Had it truly been an argument? Brutus has had so few friends with whom he might argue he has begun to lose touch with the vagaries. His last real argument was probably with his mother, which means it was a very long time ago. He recalls being much more put out by it. Perhaps this was merely a discussion, then. But a spirited one, and from the guarded look on Antony’s face, one requiring some manner of smoothing over. </p><p>“I spoke out of turn yesterday,” Brutus says. “The comparison I drew was--inapt.”  He draws the words out haltingly. He is unskilled at apologies, for he so rarely has to make them.</p><p>“You aren’t worried how much more I’ll cost you?” Antony is still touching him, but Brutus can no longer see his eyes, and he isn’t smiling. </p><p>Brutus reaches for Antony and grasps his forearms. Antony lifts his head and looks at him, and Brutus is seized with a fervent desire to return the smile to Antony’s face one way or another. His proximity is dizzying. Brutus has been too long alone, and solitude has made him overeager. </p><p>“I want you to stay here as long as you’re in Athens,” Brutus says in a rush. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You may come and go as you please, of course. But you needn’t scramble for a place to sleep, nor for food. I shall tell Tyro directly. He is to open the house to you as long as you require it, whether or not I’m around.” </p><p>Antony clears his throat. “You are too generous,” he says.There is some hesitancy, some hint of trouble in his tone, but Brutus cannot name it and feels uncomfortable attempting to do so. </p><p>“Nonsense. You are in need of reliable housing, and I’ve a surplus of it. That’s all.” </p><p>Antony raises an eyebrow. “So I’m to have any room I like?” </p><p>“Of course. </p><p>“What if I want this one? All to myself.” </p><p>Brutus frowns, unsure what Antony is playing at. “Then you may have it,” he says. “The guest rooms are cooler, though. More comfortable. It’s only that this room is the largest, so they thought I ought to have it.” </p><p>Antony stares at him, expression level and considering. Again Brutus finds himself wishing he could slip behind Antony’s eyes and see how he comes off. How stupid he must look, fully naked and making offers. He tugs the sheet up around his waist. The motion seems to break some spell, or maybe it is Brutus’s discomfort, setting Antony at ease by paradox. </p><p>Antony’s face cracks into one of his customary grins, his eyes narrowing to slits with the force of it. He kicks at Brutus under the sheet and chortles. “Only joking. As though I’d let you sleep alone, now I’ve had you.” </p><p>Brutus’s face flames. “Oh. Was it--it was all right, then?” For all his gathering joy at their newfound closeness he had somehow not considered Antony might wish to do it again. </p><p>Antony pulls Brutus close and kisses him. Brutus allows him to press closer, and to deepen his kisses until Antony’s touches and breathing grow more insistent, and his cock begins to fill and strain against Brutus. Antony braces his hands on Brutus’s chest and makes as though to push him back onto the bed, but just then there is a clatter in the doorway and a flurry of motion. A slave has given up on their materializing themselves, and come to seek them out. </p><p>Brutus shoves Antony aside and hauls the blanket over them both. “Get out,” he barks, and the slave makes a hasty retreat. Brutus turns to Antony, afraid he has offended, but Antony has clapped a hand over his mouth in an ineffectual attempt to stifle a laugh. </p><p>“Oh, you are uptight even for a patrician,” he says. </p><p>Brutus resists the urge to punch him on the arm. </p><p>He extricates himself from the bed and retrieves the pitcher and a cup. “Will you have a drink?” he asks, and when Antony nods Brutus holds the cup still for him to sip from. Brutus watches the movements of his throat, the damp sheen on his skin. There seems to be so much of it bared to him, Antony so careless in his nudity. A rivulet escapes the rim of the cup and drips onto Antony’s chest. Brutus steals the cup away and drains it himself, and does not mark where else the water goes. </p><p>Breakfast is a brisk affair, for as Brutus explains to Antony, he is here in Athens for  purposes beyond fraternizing. Antony rolls his eyes and daubs honey on his third piece of bread. </p><p>“Will you come with me to the gymnasium?” asks Brutus. </p><p>He thinks he knows the answer, but Antony surprises him: he agrees to come along, and so the two of them make their way from the house into the heat of the day once more. This time Brutus insists upon a litter, which Antony climbs into with some embarrassment. </p><p>“What?” says Brutus. “I won’t arrive soaked through with sweat. And anyway, how can you pay attention to the lecture if you are half dead from the heat?”</p><p>On the way to the gymnasium they fall into a mutual silence. Antony spends the journey across the city peering out of the litter as though he expects Athens to look different from within it. “Do you think you’ll ever go to Africa?” he asks Brutus when they are nearly at their destination. </p><p>Brutus does not understand the question. “Why, because it’s hot there?” </p><p>“No. I just meant...will you go abroad again, do you think? After Greece?” </p><p>“I’m to work under my uncle in Cyprus,” says Brutus.   </p><p>“Cyprus is not Africa.” </p><p>“No, but I daresay it is hot.” </p><p>“You will cut your teeth in Cyprus,” says Antony with finality. “You’ll go back to Rome as soon as you’re allowed.”</p><p>Something in his tone makes Brutus want to refute the statement, though he has no reason to do so. Antony is not wrong. As of yet, Brutus has no plans to live anywhere besides Rome, though he is cognizant of the fact that fate may “And you?” he asks.   </p><p>“I don’t know. I might join the army. And if I do that, I may never return to Rome at all.” He draws back the litter’s curtain and holds his hand outside. He waves it about in the stultifying air as though it were a ship bobbing on the ocean. </p><p>When they arrive at the gymnasium the press of the crowd means Antony is jostled ahead of Brutus, so he leads him into the hall first, reaching back to drag him along by a fold of his toga. Brutus recognizes several familiar faces in the crowd--Gaius Flaccus, for one, who looks at him askance--but if Antony knows anyone here he does not acknowledge them, continuing past the horde of young Romans who habitually occupy the first few rows, who wait with eager faces for the lecture to begin. When at last Antony chooses a seat Brutus despairs of being able to hear a thing. </p><p>“Is this alright with you?” asks Antony.</p><p>“It’s a little far back, don’t you think?” </p><p>Antony shrugs. “It’s fine for me,” he says. “But go on, if you’d rather.” He waves ahead at the crowd. </p><p>Brutus can still see Flaccus scanning the crowd for him. He sits down hurriedly, not wishing to draw any further attention to himself. Antony looks pleased, and claps Brutus on the thigh as he settles into his own seat on the hard stone bench, one foot resting on the bench in front of them. He jogs his leg furiously until a densely-bearded Greek turns around and glares. </p><p>“Sorry,” Antony says to him. He winks at Brutus, who stares back. When the lecture begins Antony wastes no time in leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes. </p><p>The philosopher is delivering a lecture on the passions, and Brutus quickly finds himself rapt, sitting with elbows on his knees, eyes affixed to the frail figure at the center of the hall. As he speaks the man walks back and forth in a series of slow and steady ellipses, each footfall placed just so, equidistant from the last and from the next. He moves in perfect time, perfectly passion<i>less</i>, thinks Brutus, as though determined to counterweigh his topic by dint of movement alone. </p><p>Brutus has always been comforted by considering the passions. When he grows mired in feeling there is a kind of ease to think that his mind has simply gone too far in one direction and can thus be righted, like an overgrown vine in need of retraining. The Stoics say that even delight is a kind of misjudgement; Chrysippus would call it an error of evaluation, a failure to accurately consider the present. A delighted man swells with misdirected joy, cares too much for what lies before him, loves it beyond its true measure. A lustful man desires irrationally, bound up with another, mind lost in dreams of a twinned future. </p><p>Next to Brutus, Antony shifts and snores. The Greek in the row ahead of them huffs in quiet indignation, and Brutus kicks Antony’s ankle. He grumbles at the disturbance, mouth hanging open like a fish. <i>Surely I desire him only a rational amount, </i> Brutus thinks. <i>Just look at him. He is dead asleep in the middle of the gymnasium, snorting like a wild boar.</i>  </p><p>Antony does not rouse himself until the lecture has ended and the crowd around him is rising, as though he somehow detects the shift in energy. He sits up and rubs his eyes, looking as placid as though he had simply dropped off to sleep in his bedroom. </p><p>They leave the gymnasium without waiting to speak to any of their fellows. It’s not that Brutus is embarrassed to be seen with Antony, exactly, it’s just that he’s sure there will be questions he does not feel inclined to answer. Brutus is not one to miss a lecture, and as he thinks over the last few days he has the feeling he has failed to show up for something: dinner, perhaps, with some emissary from Rome who has come to make the rounds of noble youth abroad. He hopes it was not a friend of his mother’s. He wonders at Antony, at the ease with which he moves about the city, as though he belongs to it. He seems to have no concerns about anything, no responsibilities. </p><p>“When did you come here?” Brutus asks him. </p><p>They are sitting on a bench near the agora, eating cheese pies from a market stall and watching a militia drill in the center of the square. The men are fully dressed despite the heat, their limbs shining with sweat and oil. Antony is so absorbed in watching them that he does not hear Brutus’s question, and has to ask him to repeat it. </p><p>“I asked how long you’d been in Greece.” </p><p>“Oh. Not so long, really,” Antony says. “Three months? Four?” </p><p>“And you have never come to the gymnasium before?”</p><p>Antony shoves half a pie into his mouth. They are baked brown and shaped like crescent moons, the size of Brutus’s palm, and they have each demolished two already. </p><p>“I have,” Antony says. “When the topic interests me. I’m not just here for fun, you know. I’m meant to be studying rhetoric.” </p><p>“Is that why you asked if I thought you’d make a good orator?” </p><p>Antony flushes. “I was just talking out my arse.” </p><p>“You are convincing, I’ll admit. But oration takes a lot of practice. You must observe a great many speakers. You’ve got to figure out your style.” </p><p>“I’ve got style already,” Antony mutters, gazing out at the soldiers again. Antony observes the men as closely as Brutus had the lecturer in the gymnasium. Meanwhile, Brutus observes him. </p><p>Antony does have style, he thinks. Brutus is not naive to politics; he has been around it his whole life, and when he thinks of the men who have come to his mother’s parties, these men of quality, what he recalls best is their particular style. Even his uncle Cato, as dour and devoid of joy as he is, cannot be said to lack some measure of style, and Antony certainly outstrips him. Perhaps Antony will be an orator, though at present he seems disinclined to harness his abilities in any one direction other than towards whichever pleasure beckons next. Brutus supposes he cannot blame him. Free of any  expectations, he might be the same. </p><p>That evening Brutus gives himself over to Antony’s whims. Having roped him into the lecture earlier it seems only fair to let him decide the night’s entertainment, and Antony rises to the task with aplomb and no small amount of glee. </p><p>He leads Brutus deep into the far side of the city, to a neighborhood Brutus has never been. The streets wend and narrow and when given the choice Antony seems always to take the darker one, ducking between buildings and disturbing nests of beggars and rats. They sent the litter home hours ago, but Brutus wishes they had it now, or at least an attendant slave. </p><p>“Do you want to be robbed? Two of us may pass unnoticed. A bunch of slaves just draw attention, and with a litter you may as well have a sign on your back.” </p><p>Brutus knows Antony is right, but he can’t help the way the hair rises on the back of his neck, the way he tenses at street noise, at far off shouts and darting cats making their nightly rounds. In a patch of shadow Antony draws him close and wraps an arm around his waist. </p><p>“I’ll protect you,” he says. “Don’t worry.”</p><p> Brutus ought to be offended, but he loses his breath instead.  </p><p>Antony is reticent on the subject of their destination, and when they arrive Brutus sees why. Had Antony told him they were on their way to a brothel, there is no way Brutus would have agreed to go along. </p><p>“You’ve got to be joking,” he says in the doorway, when the nature of the establishment dawns on him. </p><p>The brothel seems to be situated in a common house, at least from the outside, but when the door opens Brutus is assaulted by a burst of humidity and the unmistakable odor of sex: sweat and fetid flesh and rare perfumes. Brutus has never been to a Roman brothel, so he does not know how this one compares. He hasn’t seen so much bare skin at once since the last time he went to the baths. But at the baths men are modest, and at least make some attempt to conceal themselves; here they seem to glory in their nudity. Logical, Brutus supposes, given that their bodies amount to wares on display. </p><p>There are men and women alike, gleaming with oil and cheap jewelry. Some wear bright feathers and paint their faces. They lounge on low couches chatting and sipping wine. When they see Brutus and Antony they pause and pose for them. The proprietress is an older woman who eyes them balefully: two young men with little to spend, she must think. Probably they will want to share. She raises an eyebrow at Brutus, who quickly looks away. </p><p> “This is your idea of a night out?” he hisses at Antony. </p><p>Antony rolls his eyes. “Keep your horror,” he says. “We aren’t staying here.” </p><p>He takes Brutus by the elbow and maneuvers through the room up to the desk where the proprietress sits on her stool. “Two of us,” he says to her, and she sighs and holds out her hand for his coin. When Antony has paid she waves them back through a cramped and greasy kitchen, where a dirty, big-eyed child crouches beneath a table playing with a cat. Brutus can hear a buzz of voices, both from the brothel behind them and from the room ahead. </p><p>Antony ushers them through another doorway into a long, low-ceilinged room lit with lamps and thick with heat. Here Brutus sees more couches and several tables, all occupied; at the tables men are playing dice, some with women on their laps. There is a bar along the far wall, and a barkeep serving cups of dry, tart wine, which Antony is quick to procure for them. </p><p>“Is this watered?” Brutus asks, wincing at his first sip. </p><p>“Sure it is,” says Antony. “Cheers, Brutus. To your first time in a real Athenian taverna.” He clunks his cup against Brutus’s and gulps his own wine. </p><p>“Do you come here often?” </p><p>“Often enough. Haven’t been in awhile, though. It’s the sort of place that eats a hole in your purse if you’re not careful.” </p><p>As though to demonstrate the point, a woman glides up to them wearing a beatific smile and little else. Her body is lush and soft, and long, dark hair cascades over her shoulders. She cries out to see Antony, and throws her arms around his neck. Antony meets Brutus’s eye over her shoulder, looking sheepish. </p><p>“Not tonight, sweet Merope.” </p><p>Merope pouts, looking from Antony to Brutus. “You have replaced me,” she says in Greek. She tosses her hair.  </p><p>“Impossible,” says Antony. He rummages in his coin purse. “Here, go and have a drink, and next time you’ll be sure and save a moment for me, won’t you.” </p><p>Merope takes the coin from him with eager fingers. She kisses Antony full on the mouth and spins around to face Brutus. Up close he can see she is younger than she first appeared; fresh faced she would look scarcely older than Antony. Unsure quite what to do, Brutus nods at her in acknowledgement, and before he can protest she rises up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek, her breasts brushing against his chest. Then she is gone in a swirl of perfume, lost in the crowd. </p><p>“Eats a hole in your purse, all right,” says Brutus. His throat feels tight, though he cannot quite say why. </p><p>“She’s a nice girl,” says Antony. </p><p>“I’m sure.” </p><p>“No, truly. I know her a little. She’s got a boy at home. Her mother keeps him while she works.”  </p><p><i>Works.</i> Brutus coughs past the lump in his throat. “Well, surely they’ve all got some story.” </p><p>Antony looks at him over the top of his wine cup. “I said I know her.” </p><p>“I just meant--” </p><p>“I know what you meant.” Antony drains his wine and turns away. “I’m going to get another,” he says over his shoulder, leaving Brutus to watch him go and wonder at his reaction. </p><p>Antony is so strange, so unlike anyone Brutus has ever met. He has a patrician self assuredness that Brutus recognizes, yet he may also be at home and comfortable in seemingly any company. He cares only for himself, yet he is not precisely selfish. Rather he is accountable only to himself, and it is this independence which so perplexes Brutus, which draws his interest like a moth to torchlight. </p><p>Antony returns with another cup of wine for himself and one for Brutus, which he hands over wordlessly. They drink in silence. If Brutus thought of apologizing for his earlier misstep the idea is soon chased from his head by the warm cloud of inebriation. But Antony does not seem inclined to dwell either, and before long he is elbowing Brutus and nodding toward the dice table at which a group of men are about to begin another game. </p><p>“Do you play?” </p><p>“I’ll watch you.” </p><p>“That’s not as much fun. Come on, sit beside me. I’m sure you won’t lose much money at all.”</p><p>Brutus allows himself to be tugged down onto a bench, and Antony strikes up a conversation with the men there. Brutus hasn’t played at dice since he was a boy, and he has certainly never gambled for more than pebbles or olive pits. But it’s fun to sit here next to Antony, across from strangers, huddled over the dice in anticipation. All of them are drunk and the room is crowded, and no one seems to notice or care how close Antony sits, how often he seems to reach around or across Brutus or shifts his weight to lean on him. </p><p>“No cheating,” Brutus murmurs into his ear. </p><p>“I promise,” Antony replies, lips against Brutus’s cheek. </p><p>Brutus’s entire body has grown lax and heavy with drink. “This wine is not watered,” he says loudly, and the men laugh at him. Brutus laughs back, and Antony shakes him by the shoulder and tells the men he has just come from Rome and has not been to a proper taverna before. </p><p>“And as you can see, he is a lightweight.”  </p><p>“Pardon me,” says Brutus. “It isn’t my fault I’ve been sheltered.” He swats at Antony, gulps more wine. Antony looks on with amusement as Brutus smacks his palm on the table and bids their fellows roll the dice again. “Come, Andros,” he cries, as though they are all old friends. “Throw them. Oh, six! Come on six--” Andros claps his palm over the cup, shakes it, lets the dice fly. They shoot out over the table. </p><p>“Four and two,” crows Antony. “Beginner’s luck.” He hugs Brutus against him sideways, and Brutus feels a distinct flutter in his chest. </p><p>Brutus’s good fortune runs out on the next roll, and when the game breaks up they are only slightly poorer than when they started. Antony waves off another round, saying he has tired of dice, and drags Brutus up from the table for more wine. He squires Brutus bodily through the crowded room. In one corner a band of musicians launches into a tune, and midway to the bar Antony pulls up short as though he is a horse and the sound is a hard rein. Brutus has never seen someone so delighted by the opportunity to move. Antony wears one of his customary short tunics, a rich blue in a fine weave that shimmers in the low light. He wears bracelets on either wrist that clink in time to the drum-beat, and when he raises his arms over his head the hem of his tunic rides high on his muscled thighs. There are other dancers too, men with their women. There are other men so close together that they might be dancing. Brutus finds himself seized with the desire to dance so with Antony, to move around him and press their bodies close together, to feel Antony’s sweat on his own bare skin. They are in a brothel, after all. What would it matter? He swallows. Antony lifts his head and looks at Brutus. He extends his arms in invitation. </p><p>Before Brutus can move into them a man ducks in front of him, passing between Brutus and Antony as though he is simply moving from one place to another. But when he looks at Antony he stops, exclaims and takes Antony by the shoulders. Brutus feels a flare of annoyance: here is someone else Antony knows some way Brutus would prefer not to think about. But when he catches sight of Antony over the man’s shoulder, he does not see the same abashed expression he did when Antony embraced the girl, Merope. Accosted by this man, Antony wears a look of unveiled surprise and not a little fear. </p><p>The man is perhaps fifty but shorter than either of them, with a barrel chest and lean limbs. His hair is pure white, still thick as a young man’s and styled in a greasy fringe over his forehead. “Why, Marcus Antonius,” says the man to Antony. “I did not know you were still in the city.” </p><p>Antony reassembles his features, smiling wide and clasping the man’s bronzed forearm. “Metellus,” he exclaims. His tone and demeanor are of a man who sees an old friend from whom he has been parted, yet there is a particular frisson beneath Brutus cannot identify. </p><p>“So you did not leave Athens. When we parted I thought you would quit Greece altogether.” </p><p>“I had a change of heart, I suppose.” </p><p>“How extraordinary that you’ve managed to keep yourself alive.” </p><p>Antony shrugs.“You know me. Resourceful as ever.”<br/>
He casts an eye towards Brutus. Metellus notices him and turns to look. He raises an eyebrow. “Ah, you’ve made a friend. Will you introduce us?” </p><p>Antony clears his throat. His gaze skitters between Brutus and Metellus. He had been so easy just a moment ago, but now he looks as though he would rather be anywhere but here. “Lucius Metellus,” he says with a cough. “I present Marcus Junius Brutus.” </p><p>Metellus stares hard into Brutus’s face, stroking his chin with a finger and clearly making a show of recalling his name. Looking at him Brutus is reminded of Antony that first night, though there had been something of the kicked dog in Antony’s attitude then that Metellus lacks now. Unless Brutus is much mistaken, he looks like the sort of man to do the kicking. </p><p>“Come, I am quite sure you know of me,” Brutus says. “Or perhaps my ancestor, though I could not fault you for failing to draw the parallel.”</p><p> Brutus gives an over-bright laugh. He falls so easily onto self-deprecation when uncomfortable, even as he knows Metellus is likely to seize upon it somehow. </p><p>“Of course, of course,” says Metellus. “A young Brutus, come to Athens like our Antony.” He casts a look at Antony, his expression unreadable. “Come,” he says, his voice ringing between them. “Let us drink together, all three of us. It’s been too long.” He wraps an arm around Antony’s shoulders and ushers him towards the bar, leaving Brutus to follow in their wake. </p><p>Metellus rejects the sour local wine with a wave of his hand, and has the bartender send for something better. A boy straggles back from the cellar clutching an amphora nearly the width of his torso. The wine is dark and sweet and just as potent as the local, though Metellus calls for water with his. </p><p>Metellus toasts them with a wink.“There you are, Antony. You cannot say you did not miss this.” </p><p>“Always the best with you,” says Antony, as though reciting a maxim. “You spoil us.” </p><p>“Perhaps I do. Ah, but I cannot help it. Men grow sentimental far from home, and I have been away from Rome a very long time. Do you not find it so?” Metellus regards Brutus and smiles. The wine has stained his lips and teeth purple.<br/>
“I have found Romans here are inclined to behave out of character,” Metellus continues. “Understandable for a time, but I caution you young men against allowing it to persist. It becomes all the harder to extricate oneself, when the time comes.” </p><p>“Sound advice,” says Brutus, for lack of anything better to say.</p><p> He dislikes being counseled by this man, particularly in front of Antony. He dislikes more the way Metellus seems to make a net with his words, one he casts about deftly: now the net covers himself and Brutus, leaving Antony subtly but irrevocably beyond its borders. </p><p>Antony glowers at Brutus as though he too perceives it. “Yes,” he echoes. “Sound advice indeed.” </p><p>“Sound advice were I overly worried,” Brutus interjects. Drink loosens his tongue, makes him declarative. “I do nothing here in Athens I would not do in Rome.”  </p><p>Metellus appears struck silent, but only for the time it takes him to draw a breath into his great chest and bark out a ringing laugh, as though Brutus has made an unbelievably funny joke. Brutus keeps his gaze trained on Metellus, but he can feel Antony staring at him. Metellus continues to laugh for long minutes, long past the limit of propriety, tipping his head back and thumbing tears from the corners of his eyes. </p><p>“Oh, you must forgive me,” he says. “I am quite drunk, I think. And perhaps you too, ne?” </p><p>Brutus is drunk, words thick on his tongue. If he argues he will only seem more so, so he does not. He says nothing at all, instead hazarding a glance at Antony, who has his nose buried in his cup. </p><p>“Wine makes poets and lovers of us all,” Metellus says. “Or both at once. Isn’t that what I always say, Antony.” </p><p>“Yes, Metellus.” </p><p>“Antony,” says Brutus. “I’ve a headache. I think I’d like to go.”</p><p>Metellus frowns, his expression overstated as an actor’s mask. “So soon?”<br/>
Brutus smiles at Metellus. He hopes he looks at least a little apologetic. “Do look me up when you’re in Rome next. I do not think we shall see each other again in Athens.” </p><p>Metellus smiles back, his teeth shining like bruised pearls. “Never say never.” </p><p>Again he steps in front of Brutus to pull Antony into a lingering embrace, lips pressed to Antony’s ear. Brutus cannot hear what words he speaks to him, if any; he watches the set of Antony’s body and sees it stiffen, and cannot tell if he is pleased or pained. Brutus bites the inside of his mouth. At last Metellus releases Antony, but as Antony’s arms fall away he catches him about the wrist with a darting hand. He fingers one of Antony’s bracelets: the thickest, wrought of yellow gold and set with deep blue stones. </p><p>“I gave you this, did I not?” </p><p>Antony nods slowly. </p><p>Metellus strokes the inside of Antony’s wrist with his thumb. “I thought so,” he says. “It looks very fine on you, Marcus. I do so love to see you wear it.” </p><p>Brutus turns away. He leaves the tavern without so much as looking to see if Antony is behind him. The front room of the brothel is empty, the whores having returned to their cubicles with the men of the hour. Only their madam remains, sitting on a fat couch, bent over her mending. She scarcely looks at Brutus as he leaves. Outside on the street he feels at bereft. Perhaps Antony has stayed behind with Metellus. Perhaps he will not come. Brutus paces back and forth like a darting fly until he cannot bear to wait any longer. He is not entirely sure where he is or in what direction he will find the house, but he strikes out anyway, drunk and unthinking. He is halfway up the street before he hears a crash behind him and sees the light change. The door of the brothel has been flung open, and torchlight pours out onto the street. Brutus sees a stray cat cringe with eyes like glass beads. </p><p>“Brutus? Brutus, where are you going? Why did you leave without me?” Antony jogs up beside him. He looks disheveled. Behind them there is a muffled curse, and the door to the brothel slams again.  </p><p>“What’s happened to your tunic?” Brutus reaches out to finger Antony’s neckline, where a ragged tear has appeared in the fine cloth. </p><p>“Nothing,” says Antony, shrugging away. “You ran off.” </p><p>“I said I had a headache.” </p><p>“You should have waited.” </p><p>“Who was that man, Metellus?” </p><p>Antony crosses his arms over his chest. As he does Brutus sees his muscled forearms, his wrists. The golden bracelet glitters dully in the poor light. “He’s no one,” Antony says. </p><p>Brutus scoffs. “Do not take me for a fool.” </p><p>“I’m not,” says Antony. “Please, Brutus, let’s go home. We’ll get some willow water for your head.” </p><p>“I don’t want water. I want to know who that man was.” </p><p>Brutus is not angry with Antony, not really. He is too drunk to truly be angry, and if he is honest he is too besotted. But throughout their conversation with Metellus he had the feeling he was being made a fool of, or worse, that Metellus believed Brutus unaware that he was a fool. If Brutus is to be foolish, in Athens or anywhere, he vows to do so with full awareness. He cannot now remember what the Stoics say about shame, but first thing tomorrow morning he will look into it. </p><p>“I stayed with Metellus when I first came here,” Antony says. He has turned away from Brutus and now kicks at a loose chunk of paving. </p><p>“You said you had a disagreement.” </p><p>“He was my patron, I guess you could say. For a time, anyway. We fought one night, and I left, and until tonight I hadn’t seen him since. That’s all.” </p><p>Brutus looks at Antony’s wrist. “He gave you quite a gift.” </p><p>Antony gives a cry and yanks the bracelet off his wrist. He holds it up between thumb and forefinger as though offering it to Brutus for inspection. “Would you like to see what I think of this bloody thing?” he asks. Without awaiting an answer he reels back and hurls the bracelet into the shadows. It strikes with a high metallic chime somewhere in the middle distance, sounding as though it has struck a wall. Antony spits on the ground.</p><p>“There you are. Fuck it, and fuck Metellus. Now can we get out of here?” </p><p>Brutus nods dumbly. Looking wild, Antony grabs him by the hand and begins marching up the street, hauling Brutus forward so quickly that he has to break into a jog. “Ease up. What’s the matter with you?” </p><p>Antony does not answer. He continues to drag Brutus up the street until any remaining light from the brothel has faded and they are cloaked by darkness again. Only then does he stop, breathing heavily. </p><p>“Antony,” Brutus whispers. </p><p>Antony takes hold of Brutus’s other hand. Brutus looks around him, but the street is empty. Even the vermin seem to have abandoned them. There is only the quiet city asleep all around, and in the sky above the stars and a waxing moon, unbothered by a few sparse clouds. Antony pulls them closer to an adjacent building, backing Brutus up and up until his head is resting against the plastered wall of some tumbledown Athenian house. His pulse jumps in his throat. Suddenly he feels even further from home than usual. </p><p>“Antony,” Brutus says again. </p><p>Antony gives a pained whimper. He reaches for Brutus, but he does not touch him. His hand hangs wavering in the air, and then Antony drops down onto his knees on the street. </p><p>“What are you doing?” Brutus asks. Still no answer. There is only the sound of Antony shuffling closer on the ground. Immediately he is touching Brutus, running his hands up under the skirt of his toga, over his ankles and calves. His palms are hot and tacky with perspiration. They drag pleasantly against the sparse hair on Brutus’s legs and settle behind his knees, urging his legs apart. </p><p>Brutus is young and stupid, and thus is instantly aroused. “We are right out on the street,” he mutters, but this is mainly for his own conscience; he feels he should object and so he does, and now having objected he is free to lean back and accept what Antony offers. He gathers up his own skirts and bundles them at his waist. His path cleared, Antony groans and presses his face between Brutus’s legs, nuzzling his thighs, letting his cock brush gently against whichever part of him. To be close in this way is as exciting to Brutus as anything, but Antony is not satisfied. He persists, mouthing at the skin of Brutus’s hip, sucking it as though it were a sweet. Brutus looks on, gasping. Antony guides Brutus’s cock into his mouth with the crook of a forefinger. </p><p>“Oh, gods,” cries Brutus. “You cannot, oh you cannot--” </p><p>He scarcely knows what Antony cannot do. Cannot possibly please him so, cannot have him already on the edge of climax with the first kiss of lips to the tender head of his cock. Yet he has done so. Antony’s precise expression is shrouded by the darkness, but the sound he makes is one of proprietary amusement, as though entertained by the antics of a beloved pet. He draws forward and back. He is heat and suction. If Brutus shuts his eyes he can let the entirety of the world disappear down Antony’s throat, and he imagines it might be possible to lose himself that way, to follow it down to unknown ends. Nothing would matter were they together, nothing would matter so long as this does not stop. </p><p>Brutus grows unsteady on his feet. He rests his hands on Antony’s shoulders and lays one palm along the line of Antony’s neck, where he can feel the movements of his head back and forth, twinning the long roll of his swallows with the wash of spit along his cock and the flutter of Antony’s tongue. Brutus has never before had his cock in anyone’s mouth. He never imagined that he would; this is the sort of thing one does with whores or not at all. The boldness of the act, the pure transgression of it, is enough to make him tremble. </p><p>Brutus is prime for a display, and as though he understands this Antony sits back on his heels and considers him with eyes glazed and a wet and open mouth. Brutus moans in protest, a feeble sound to his own ears, like the mewling of an animal. Antony’s teeth are blue-white in the dark. He kisses Brutus’s cock again, traces his lips with it, sets it delicately between those teeth.</p><p>This gentle hazard is more exciting to Brutus than it should be; it sets his cock throbbing afresh and his hands spasming on Antony’s shoulders. Antony leans forward and forward until his nose is flush against Brutus’s body and Brutus can feel his breath against the hair there. Antony hollows his cheeks and sucks. He works the muscles of his throat in exquisite concert, squeezes Brutus’s buttocks with both hands and makes Brutus folds around him. It is the hands, somehow, that push him over the edge. That Antony’s hands  should touch him so desperately now, as though to sink his fingers into and through Brutus.  </p><p>Antony has let his mouth go lax, and there is a moment in which he looks up at Brutus with eyes that are perfectly empty. <i>Fill me</i>, Antony seems to say. <i>I am a vessel only.</i> Brutus cries out to see it. Brutus has stood here like a statue, has scarcely moved at all, but now he feels set aflame. He rolls his hips and bucks against Antony’s face, holding his head in his hands, moving it to and fro. Antony moans near continuously as though pleased to have given over control. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks, and Brutus’s thumbs skitter through tears in the hollows below his eyes. </p><p>“Oh, don’t stop,” cries Brutus. He is unsure whether he is addressing Antony or himself. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.” </p><p>He comes in a white-hot rush in which everything falls away. He is dimly aware of kneeling, of Antony coughing and laughing and gathering Brutus in his arms. Antony is very hard, and wet against Brutus’s thigh. He grabs Brutus’s hand and sets his well-used mouth against the palm, muttering sweet words there. He plasters himself to Brutus’s body and thrusts arhythmically several times before coming with a ragged cry somewhere in the tangle of both their clothes. </p><p>Eventually, Brutus becomes aware that they are lying on the street. He is drenched in sweat, which has begun to cool. The flagstones are hard at his back. Antony has curled around him, head pillowed on Brutus’s chest, and looks for all the world as though he could sleep the night through right here in this filthy alley. Brutus jostles him. He hums and settles again just as he had while napping in the gymnasium. </p><p>“Come on,” says Brutus. “We should go.” </p><p>“Mmm. No.” </p><p>Brutus brushes the hair back from Antony’s forehead. Antony smiles. </p><p>“Get up. Delaying only makes it worse.” Brutus’s limbs are heavy with heat and drink and pleasure. Never before has he felt kinship with a drunk passed out in the street, but he has to admit he can almost see the appeal. </p><p>“We should have kept the litter,” grumbles Antony. </p><p>“You were the one who insisted we walk.” </p><p>“You shouldn’t listen to me anymore.”  </p><p>Brutus struggles to his feet, letting his toga fall to his ankles again and wincing at the wet cloth that sticks to his legs. “It isn’t far,” he says, though he still cannot remember where the house is. </p><p>Luckily, once Brutus helps him up Antony seems to regain at least some of his wits. He points them in the direction of Brutus’s <i>domus</i> and begins to walk again, sprightly as though they have just arrived at the tavern. On the way he complains of a sour stomach and stops twice to retch into the gutter, wiping his mouth off nonchalantly on his tunic when he is finished, seeming none the worse for wear. </p><p>When they arrive at home Tyro has made himself scarce, sending a younger, less experienced slave to attend to them. Brutus notes his absence and apparent disapproval with trepidation that seems misplaced at first--why, after all, should he care about the opinion of a slave? But even as he repeats this to himself he understands that Tyro is his mother’s eyes and ears in Greece, and thus must never be underestimated. </p><p>“What is it?” Antony asks, noticing Brutus’s brooding. Brutus has forced him into the bath again, and as before he is content to be there after much grousing. He paddles in the water, splashes himself and Brutus and babbles about nothing. To look at him one would never know the night had taken such a peculiar turn, as though Antony has simply washed away any evidence of their meeting with Lucius Metellus and the interlude on the street afterwards. Brutus can claim no such ease, but he is too tired to burden Antony with his troubled thoughts tonight. He waves off his question and climbs out of the bath. When they retire, Brutus falls asleep immediately. Despite his fractious brain, he does not dream.</p>
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